With Understanding
by apokteino
Summary: Supposed serial killer Dean Winchester kidnaps his soulmate, FBI Agent Castiel Novak. What ensues is a battle of wills – one determined to be loved, and one determined to be free.
1. Chapter 1

**Title** : With Understanding  
 **Author** : **apokteino**  
 **Rating** : R (this will probably go up on lj and ao3)  
 **Pairing** : Dean Winchester/Castiel  
 **Genre** : angst, drama  
 **Warnings** : kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome, Lima Syndrome (this chapter)  
 **Summary** : Winchester takes a deep breath. "I'm your soulmate."

Castiel should be saying something reassuring, something to convince the psychopath in front of him that he can be molded and should be kept alive. He is a trained FBI agent that has been in the Behavioral Analysis Unit for nearly a year. He knows what to do when kidnapped. Instead, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" comes out.

 **AN** : Warnings will be added as the story progresses. I do have a fair bit already written, but I'm not totally sure about all the warnings the story will need. For the moment I will warn on a chapter by chapter basis.  
 **AN2** : This is not really a Criminal Minds crossover. I just can't imagine the BAU not being them. I don't know yet how much they will appear in the story. Maybe you can tell me what you think? Anyway, you don't need to know Criminal Minds to understand anything.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

Wyoming is chilly this time of year.

The cave where Dean Winchester left his victims is even more so. Castiel, even after a year of being in Virginia with the BAU, has never gotten used to the cold. In the local police station it's warmer, and Castiel is able to sit back and relax, staring at the photos Cheyenne's forensics took.

There's nothing much left behind except bones with bite marks, left in sloppy piles. Like almost everything about Dean Winchester, it doesn't make much sense. Frankly, the only reason they even found this particular little hideout is because of the nearby fire he'd set. Almost like he'd intended to destroy evidence, except he didn't burn the bodies, instead a random area. None of it matches the psychology of his past crimes, either in signature of sadism. Plus the local medical examiner said some of the bones were thirty years old, which suggests Dean may have picked up where John Winchester left off.

Maybe.

Because then why was he going around pretending to be FBI, asking about the missing persons cases? Before the actual FBI got involved?

"Definitely one of our weirder cases," SSA Hotchner says, walking into the room. His boss is a good man, and a great boss – he'd taken Castiel under his wing with all the extensive experience and knowledge he had, and Castiel will never forget that. "The MO is all over the place."

Castiel nods in agreement. "Ten years he's been on our radar, and he has yet to repeat a crime."

"No Sam Winchester, this time," Hotchner says. "Though as often as one of them has been declared dead, I don't think that's indicative of anything." He pauses. "Aren't you supposed to be asleep? I thought I ordered you to keep to sixteen hour shifts. Most likely he's not even in the state."

Castiel shrugs uncomfortably. "I just have this feeling he's still here. Watching us. I can't explain it."

Hotchner eyes him. "Gut instinct?"

Castiel has never gone with his gut. He's too in his head for that. A lot of friends had told him that. "Yes. As bizarre as I know it sounds."

"It would be uncharacteristic. He's never stayed behind to taunt law enforcement before. Shown absolutely no interest in having our attention or keeping track of his case." Hotchner mulls it over. "Follow it up."

Castiel follows it up for the rest of the week, but Dean Winchester never shows.

* * *

Castiel drops his keys in that ridiculous little wicker basket that his brother Balthazar insisted on buying him upon concluding that there wasn't a single personal touch in Castiel's apartment. ("But the books!" Castiel had insisted. "Doesn't count," Balthazar said.) He does his usual cursory check on all the rooms before taking off his gun and badge, then goes for a bottle of water in the fridge. There's leftover takeout in there, too, which is tonight's probable dinner. He picks up a random box and sniffs. Ah, broccoli and beef. Sounds good.

He swings shut the refrigerator door, then something makes him freeze. Listening.

An arm reaches from behind him and snakes around his neck while a foot kicks the back of his knee, forcing him to collapse. Training and experience kick in and he twists, seeing a flash of a needle. The man behind him is strong and just as trained, because he doesn't let go, maneuvering to get Castiel back into a choke-hold. He drops the needle to get a better hold on Castiel, and Castiel distantly sees it shatter on the floor.

Castiel steps to his left and continues twisting his torso, trying to put his right leg behind his attacker's to kick him off balance. But instead his attacker starts pulling him back, forcing all of Castiel's weight onto his neck. He knows what he's doing, and dark spots are starting to color Castiel's vision. Castiel shoves backwards, trying to reach a wall so he can get leverage back and hears something crash to the ground, but his attacker still doesn't let up. Getting desperate, he goes for his attacker's eyes, but his attacker just shifts his head out of range.

That's when he passes out.

Castiel wakes up in a car trunk. It's pitch black and the car isn't moving, but he can tell what it is by the shape of the space he inhabits. He's cuffed behind his back, and his ankles are tied together and a heavy gag sits in his mouth. He listens for a couple of minutes, then starts trying to get his hands in front of him before realizing that his hands have been tied to his feet. Well, fuck.

The car shakes and a car door slams shut. Footsteps get closer. Castiel closes his eyes and goes still, not reacting when cool air hits him.

"Don't bother," a strangely familiar voice says. "I know you're awake."

Castiel opens his eyes.

Dean Winchester stares back at him. He smiles gently at Castiel and then shows him a needle. "Only a sedative, I swear. It'll make this easier."

Castiel does his best to glare a threat.

"You've lost ten pounds in the last six months," Winchester says randomly. "So I won't give you the full dose."

Castiel rolls his eyes, but doesn't bother to pointlessly struggle when Winchester places the needle at his arm, injecting into muscle. Within about thirty seconds, Winchester giving him a concerned look the whole time, he loses consciousness. Twice more he rises from that darkness, to find Winchester staring down at him. Sometimes he thinks he hears Winchester apologize, before the next prick of pain.

The third time he wakes up on a soft bed. He's lying on what feels like a very fluffy blanket, his hands and feet unbound. That impression lasts until he moves, when he feels something very heavy on his ankle. The world swims for a second when he opens his eyes, but he finds himself staring at a concrete ceiling. Looking around gives him concrete, windowless walls and an open doorway, beyond which there's a similar hallway. It looks halfway industrial, halfway like a fallout shelter. Another doorway leads to a bathroom that looks like it came from the fifties.

And there on his ankle is a manacle, padded to be comfortable on the inside. A heavy chain is attached to it, disappearing off the bed.

Castiel slowly sits up, Dean Winchester nowhere in sight.

The room is empty besides the bed, so he follows the chain to a bolt in the floor, which it's locked to. It looks embedded in the concrete, so there's no way he's going to break out of this by sheer strength. The lock looks weird, and Castiel can't tell by looking at it how it functions, so he probably can't pick it. Great.

The chain itself is about twenty feet long. It will easily let him into the bathroom, and perhaps a few feet into the hallway.

The room blurs when Castiel stands up, the chain making a loud clanging noise when the slack falls to the floor. His legs are shaky and cramping, his stomach is groaning, and his throat is a dry wasteland. He stumbles over to the hall door, feeling absurdly weak. His body is refusing to obey his commands properly, almost like that time he got shot back when he was a police detective and spent a week in the hospital, except there's not a mark on him. How long was he in that car trunk?

The hallway is empty save for more doors, all shut. It's long, though, and curves around out of sight. There's no way this is a house.

Swallowing dryly, he looks back at the bed and sees a water bottle lying in the blankets. It might be drugged, but hey, been there and done that plus being chained to the floor. A little pit of hysteria rises in his chest and is killed in his head; he will remain calm and use his mind. He sits, massaging his calves with one hand while he drinks with the other.

"I can help with that."

Castiel chokes on his water.

Winchester is standing at the doorway, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a very worn black t-shirt. He's barefoot. Castiel didn't even hear him coming. "The muscle cramping? I could massage it, I mean you probably wouldn't let me get close enough …" he trails off, looking uncomfortable and somewhat embarrassed. "Uh, how about some ibuprofen? Black tea? Sam always swore by its anti-flammory-something properties."

Sam swore, past tense. Winchester looks hopeful, staring at him while waiting for an answer. Castiel needs to be careful here. "Ibuprofen and tea would be good, thank you."

Winchester immediately smiles, like the sun coming out. "I'll be back."

Castiel goes through a short series of stretches before Winchester comes back, but he keeps a careful eye on the door.

Winchester approaches the door slowly ten minutes later. He has a pill bottle in one hand and the tea in the other. Rather than enter, he places the two items on the floor just inside the room, within easy reach of Castiel but still far enough away that Castiel would have had a hard time rushing him. "Here you go." Then he retreats to the hallway, out of Castiel's reach.

Eyeing him silently for almost a full minute, Castiel then grabs the pill bottle first and looks for the description of the pill before opening it up and taking a few out. They match. He takes the tea, which is still pretty hot, and swallows several down with a sip of it. He looks up at Winchester and waits, but Winchester seems fairly content to just stand there and look at him.

Castiel clears his throat, back up a bit. The rest of tea is a fairly effective weapon if his question doesn't go over well. "So, why am I here?"

Winchester takes a deep breath. "I'm your soulmate."

Castiel should be saying something reassuring, something to convince the psychopath in front of him that he can be molded and should be kept alive. He is a trained FBI agent that has been in the BAU for nearly a year. He knows what to do when kidnapped. Instead, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" comes out.

"Probably a lot," Winchester admits.

Castiel tries to backtrack, for survival's sake. "I mean – why? Why me?"

Winchester grimaces a bit. "Look, I'm sure you're being nice and calm about this because you think I'm going to torture and kill you, but that isn't what this is about. I swear. I won't hurt you."

"I've seen your file, Dean."

Nodding wryly, Winchester says, "Yeah. I know. I saw you in Wyoming. That, um. Kind of triggered this."

Clenching the tea mug, Castiel asks, "What do you mean?" He needs to follow Winchester down this rabbit hole, figure out a weakness, figure out a way to get _Dean_ to a mental place to let Castiel go. Build a relationship.

"Almost two years ago now, my brother was dying. So I asked Anna – well – well what she is isn't important, but I asked her if I'd be with Sam, in heaven, you know? And she said yes, that we were soulmates, but that I had two soulmates, just like Sam. A platonic and a romantic one." Dean picks at thread from his sweatpants. "I asked her for my soulmate's name, and she gave me yours. Castiel Novak."

Castiel stares at Dean. "But we had never met. Right?" He doesn't recall ever meeting Dean, not even a chance meeting, and Castiel's memory is not as good as Reid's but it's still very good.

"Right," Dean says, nodding. "And usually they do, I mean cupids, they do that kind of thing. But you're a man, so it wasn't, uh, ideal. For the cupids' purpose. Breeding wise." Dean shuts his eyes. "Forget I said that last part."

Dean Winchester, serial killer, believes in cupids. "Okay. Okay." And he can't get much farther.

"So then I asked some other questions," Dean rallies, "and apparently if soulmates don't meet in this life they don't always share an afterlife. But sometimes they do. So, you and I could have ended up in the same heaven anyway. Possibly. And when Sam … when Sam passed, I couldn't do much of anything. But then I got to thinking that you and I might be spending eternity together or _not_ – and I couldn't let that go. I know how I feel about Sam, about my brother, and to feel that for someone else?" Dean stops.

"You wanted that chance," Castiel says slowly.

"Yeah. And then I saw you in Wyoming. I mean obviously I looked you up way before that, before you were even with the BAU, but when I saw you – I can't explain it." Dean meets Castiel's gaze, eyes absurdly green. "But I knew you. I had to know you."

So Dean thinks he loves him, that he will feel something deeply for Castiel. He may already do so, in some twisted, possessive sense of the word, given how stalkers usually operate. It's in Castiel's best interests to go along with it for as long as possible and not aggravate any mental illness Dean may have. The BAU had a hard time nailing that down when Dean and Sam Winchester's crimes were so varied, psychologically speaking, so Castiel is mostly operating in the blind. However, he was likely abused as a child, given what Castiel knows of John Winchester's extracurricular activities when Dean was a child, so Castiel will need to be very careful not to trigger that. And he will need to play up any feelings of love or affection Dean has, while not popping Dean's delusions about monsters. (Castiel has seen the Baltimore tape.)

But Dean also has the self-awareness to know Castiel's immediate assumption, and assure him otherwise. This will be a tight-rope, to not be obvious about gaining Dean's trust.

Castiel licks his lips and notes how Dean's eyes follow the motion. "And the chain?" he asks, lifting his right leg.

"Sorry," Dean says. "But you are an FBI agent. It stays."

"Can I ask a question, then?"

"You can always ask questions," Dean says immediately. "I know this is pretty fucked up, okay? But my entire life is fucked up, so. Ask."

"We've met. Correct? Isn't that sufficient?"

"But you don't –" Dean stops himself.

Love you, Castiel thinks, feeling a chill. How far will Dean take this? To rape? Dean sounds like an intimacy stalker, while still retaining the knowledge that Castiel doesn't want or return the desire, like the incompetent subtype of stalker. "Thank you for the tea."

Dean smiles. It's a nice smile, and Castiel really understands how so many witnesses and side characters in Dean's crimes were so taken and charmed by him. When he lights up, so does the room. He's very charismatic. "Be honest, okay? About anything, about everything."

Castiel nods, after a second. "All right. There's no consequences for something I say?"

"No, no no. Absolutely not. I didn't bring you here to hurt you, I swear. I want to know you, and this is the only way that was ever going to happen. What with the whole wanted-by-the-FBI thing." Dean looks down. "Like I said, you're my soulmate."

Castiel watches as Dean seems to go through some kind of internal struggle. When Dean seems to have regained control, he asks, "May I have some dinner, then? Or breakfast? What time is it?"

"Dinner," Dean says, sounding grateful. "I'll get you a clock. Do you need anything else?"

Castiel pauses. "Something to read?"

"Oh man, wait til you see the library!" Dean says. "Sam just about had an orgasm. A nerd orgasm."

Castiel blinks, and then Dean is gone. Castiel finds himself staring down at his slowly cooling black tea. He has been kidnapped by Dean Winchester, the serial killer who he was tracking five weeks ago. And apparently Dean has been aware of him for some time – two years? Castiel was in a field office in Texas back then, living near his brother. That means Dean likely knows where Balthazar lives. _You've lost ten pounds in the last six months._ Castiel had his last physical checkup six months ago. Could Dean have gotten Castiel's records somehow?

Confusion, anger and a fair amount of fear stew together in Castiel's gut, making a powerful pot of panic. Castiel puts the mug on the ground – Dean probably doesn't have a table in here for fear of Castiel throwing at him or making a weapon of it – and sits on the floor, crossed-legged, so he can meditate. His colleagues at work had sometimes teased him about his determined calm, about how it overflowed into his personal life and made him incapable of having fun, of relaxing. But here, it will save his life. Because there is no personal life anymore.

Not as long as Dean has him.

The metal on his ankle is cold, even with the padding.

* * *

Dean returns an hour later with dinner. It's burgers, so no utensils, just a paper plate. He also brings another water bottle, sealed, and sets that in the doorway, too. He smiles faintly at Castiel. "I'll be right back."

Castiel uses the time to grab the burger and bring it back to the bed. It's actually a double cheeseburger, with very fresh lettuce and tomato, even a few strips of bacon rolled around the beef. It looks homemade, so Dean went to some trouble to make it. That suggests that Dean is worried about Castiel's opinion of him, which is good. Certainly better than the opposite.

The first bite is like heaven. The cheese, melted just so, and the beef is fresh and spiced well, and BBQ sauce drips down Castiel's fingers. It feels like he hasn't eaten anything in weeks. He can't help a small moan.

"Erm," Dean says.

Castiel does not choke, this time. Instead he nods at Dean and takes a gulp of water.

Dean places a few books in the doorway. "Reading material. I don't exactly know your tastes, so I just picked a few things at random." He shifts on his feet. "You mind if I join you for dinner? I'll stay out here."

Hesitating, Castiel finally replies, "All right."

Quick flash of a smile, and Dean is gone. He tries to count the footsteps he can hear, wondering how far the kitchen is. How big this place is. Dean is nearly gone five minutes, then he returns with his own loaded paper plate. He settles on the floor in the hallway, leaning up against the far wall, and without any commentary begins to eat.

It's almost companionable. Almost.

When Castiel is licking his fingers, Dean begins, "So, there's probably a few things I should get straight."

Castiel nods cautiously.

"One, if you do manage to get close enough to attack or kill me, that's not in your best interest. We're in the middle of nowhere in a building that doesn't exist on any county or state records. No one visits. I don't keep the key anywhere on me or in your reach, so you can't knock me out and go for a run. I'd really like not to have to worry about that, and give you whatever you want or need without fear of being attacked."

Mouth dry, Castiel asks, "And two?"

"As long as you bear in mind my first point, I'll make the chain longer and give you more free run. Three, I'm not going to rape you. Or torture you. Or kill you. I'm not a murderer. I've killed, I won't deny that, but I never killed anyone who didn't have it coming. Most of the murders pinned on me were committed by other people." Dean grimaces. "Or not-people. I'm sure you think I'm crazy for believing in monsters, but that's what I hunt. Not innocent people."

"Am I guilty?" Castiel snaps without thinking about it.

Dean flinches. "No. You're not." He pauses, and Castiel breathes a little easier. "There are – there are crimes I have committed, that were wrong. This is one. I know it is. I kidnapped you. But Sam made me promise …"

"Promise what?" Castiel prompts.

Dean shakes his head. "So, we clear on those points?"

"Can you prove the third?" Castiel asks.

"I can," Dean says. "Sorta. I can provide proof I'm not crazy, if that'll help."

That should be interesting. "I would like to see that."

Dean grins, a bit of sadness in his eyes. "I'll see if I can arrange it, then." He gets up and gathers his paper plate and napkin. "It's after ten. You still hungry?"

"Can I have something for later?" Castiel asks.

"Sure," Dean agrees. "Powerbars, something like that?"

"Yes."

Dean goes to get it. Castiel tests the length of the chain, and finds he can get about three feet into the hallway. He could reach the far wall if he lay down on his stomach or knelt. So Dean was theoretically in reach this whole time. Castiel knows, of course, that if he actually tried approaching Dean could have backed up a few feet ridiculously easily. But it suggests that Dean does want to get close, his protestations of innocence aside.

Castiel is still wearing the slacks and undershirt he was wearing in his apartment, though. Dean doesn't just want him – he wants Castiel to return that desire.

How far will Castiel let him go? How far will Castiel himself go?

Day one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings** : Some violence and non-consensual cuddling.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

Castiel decides to take a shower in the morning, before realizing he can't get his pants off. So the set of neatly folded pajamas left just outside the door are pretty useless.

He gets his first good look at himself when he realizes there's a small mirror. There's one big line of a bruise along his neck where Dean had choked him to unconsciousness. His throat doesn't hurt much otherwise, which means Dean had attempted to do a fairly safe chokehold, and the bruises are mostly because Castiel resisted. He skims the bruises with his fingertips, but they aren't that sensitive. His wrists are a little raw from being bound and stung when he washed his hands and face, but since he had socks on his ankles are fine. He does a quick washcloth cleaning of chest and armpits.

The mirror is, unfortunately, rather securely attached to the wall. Castiel could shatter it with a blanket-covered fist, but if Dean is telling the truth, killing his captor is a bad idea. If no one knows to check this building, he could starve to death before being found. He supposes he could try to torture Dean into cooperation, but frankly he doesn't think he has the stomach for that, or even that it would be at all effective once Dean was out of his control. Or he could cut off his foot. Which. No. Even if a mirror shard would do the job, which it probably wouldn't.

So he returns to the bed and waits with a copy of Moby Dick in hand. Still no clock.

He looks up at a knock to the door frame. Dean is there, a wall clock in hand. "Good morning. 9:00am, you slept a while." He places it in the doorway. "I'll go make breakfast. Do you need anything?"

Suddenly, Castiel feels horribly uncomfortable. He tells Dean anyway. "I need a way to change clothes."

But Dean just nods like he was expecting this question. "I know. I didn't want to undress you while you were asleep, but I've got some pants for you that button up the sides." He points at the set of pajamas Castiel hadn't looked closely enough at. "Um, you'll have to rip the ones you have. Sorry. I'm not sure I trust you with a pair of scissors."

Did Dean really miss the fact the bathroom has a mirror? Also, _asleep?_ "All right."

Dean leaves. Then returns. "Breakfast preferences?"

"I don't have any," Castiel replies honestly. "I usually just eat whatever's at work."

Dean nods and takes off for good this time. Castiel grabs the pajamas – dark blue, no pattern, and just like Dean said each leg has buttons up the side. He guesses they're intended for the disabled or anyone who find it difficult to stand up and put on pants normally. Ripping the seams on his slacks is a lot harder than he expected, but he does manage it. The shower is amazing, with hot pressure that lets Castiel actually relax. He dresses in the pajamas, and then peeks out of the bathroom.

Eggs, bacon and a piece of toast wait on a paper plate, with a plastic fork. Dean isn't in sight. He waits for two minutes until Dean – slowly – walks up in the hallway and then stands at the doorway, his own plate in hand.

Before Dean can speak, Castiel asks, "Bon appétit?"

Dean grins, realizing Castiel waited for him, and sits cross-legged on the floor. "Yep."

It's just as good as dinner the night before. At least his kidnapper is a good cook. Castiel waits until they're both done eating, then readies himself, because this is going to sound awkward but he doesn't have a better way of saying it. "Dean, we're soulmates, right?"

The look on Dean's face suggests he knows Castiel is humoring him on that point, but Dean nods anyway.

"Can you tell me, then, what happened to you? That you live the life you do?" Castiel asks.

A pained smile crosses Dean's face before he hangs his head. "Yeah, I guess that's fair. But y'know, I'm not good at talking about it. So bear with me, okay?"

"I'm listening," Castiel says.

"You know about the fire?" Dean asks.

Castiel nods. "And that your father took you and Sam across the nation hunting for your mother's killer." While doing his own killings. No one even connected them until Victor Henrickson got creative and started matching their childhood homes with local murders, but he found the same bizarre deaths in places John Winchester had been that he found with Dean and Sam Winchester.

"He was hunting monsters. Wendigos, rugarus, simple salt and burns – ghosts, I mean – black dogs. Witches. Demons. You name it. He raised us as hunters, taught us to do the same thing he did." Dean pauses, spinning his fork on his paper plate. "The supernatural has been following my family for generations." Dean waves his fork at the ceiling. "Including this place."

"Sounds difficult," Castiel says softly. And he's not lying for sympathy; living with a delusional killer as a child must have been incredibly traumatizing.

"I love hunting," Dean says with a small smile. "Always did. Sam got out for a while, but he got pulled back in when Jess died. I'm sure you know about that."

Castiel nods. "Is Sam …?" he asks, hoping for a confirmation.

Dean just nods tightly. "He died for a spell, one that closed the gates of hell."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, come on, you think I'm a total lunatic," Dean replies, rising to his feet, antsy and agitated energy vibrating off of him.

"My older brother died in Afghanistan," Castiel tells him on impulse. "I do understand, on some level, what it is to lose someone like that."

Dean's bitter strength fades into something softer. He nods without saying anything, shifting from foot to foot in the doorway. Finally, "Can I come in? Just inside the doorway? Easier to talk. I won't go near you, just sit on the floor."

"Okay," Castiel agrees warily.

Dean settles just inside the room, sitting with his back to the wall. And then, quietly and with halting words, he tells Castiel the story of his life. Taking his brother's life in hands at four, and never letting go – through all the parent meetings he attended and John missed, through the first sex talk, through Sam leaving for college. His life revolved around Sam's. He doesn't say that directly, of course, but in this case Castiel trusts the unsaid more. It echoes in 'He was my responsibility' and 'It was my job to take care of him.' There's a deep grief behind those words; Dean hasn't recovered from Sam's death. It probably triggered Castiel's kidnapping more than anything else.

Slowly, in between hunts – Dean seems determined to explain exactly what he was doing in the cases the FBI is aware of, and quite a few they're not (Castiel is taking mental notes about dates and locations) – he explains how a demon killed his mother, Mary, and his father's quest for revenge. Sam's, too. The story gets grander as it goes, from a demon harassing them to the fallen angel Lucifer needing Sam as a vessel. But to Castiel's surprise, it never falters. There's no missing pieces. Any question Castiel asks, Dean is able to answer without altering earlier facts. It's not like the delusional meanderings of a schizophrenic at all, and for psychosis it's extremely organized and internally consistent.

Even during the pain that flickers in Dean's eyes when he tells Castiel of hell. Of breaking in hell. Dean could have easily skipped that portion, and him telling Castiel feels like a confession, one that Castiel isn't honestly sure what to do with.

He does know he's going to leave this conversation with a lot more sympathy and empathy for Dean than he started with, even if he thinks Dean is probably crazier than expected.

"Well, fuck man, I think I need a beer after all that," Dean says, rubbing his face tiredly.

Castiel looks at his wall clock, sitting flat on the floor for a lack of nails. "It's only noon."

"It's not morning, that's all that counts," Dean says, rising to his feet and stretching. "You want one?"

"No, thank you," Castiel says. He needs his wits.

Dean pauses at the doorway. "Water? Juice? Milk? The milk in your fridge was going bad, I couldn't tell if you don't actually like it or it was just all the traveling you did."

Does Dean even know he's doing that, mixing in little details that say he knows Castiel better than he should? "Juice, please."

Dean ends up nursing the beer for more than an hour. When Castiel shows no sign of initiating conversation, Dean takes over with good cheer.

Castiel listens. He analyzes. He does what he does best, intellectualizing it.

There's what Dean tells him, and there's what Castiel understands. Dean, in an effort to win Castiel over, tells Castiel funny stories from his past, his most interesting hunts, things about Sam. While they are mostly factual ("Yeah, man, fairies exist and they're mostly the reason for all those UFO weirdos."), Castiel sees Dean's emotional state in them, too ("Sam had a great time when he ran off, found that out one time when we died, but oh man when Dad – anyway, those sad puppy eyes Sam could throw, let me tell you!").

Dean is lonely. Dean has been alone for much of his life, even when surrounded by his family. Only in the last six or seven years before his death was Sam truly a partner to him, sharing in both his crimes and his daily life. And now that Sam is gone, Dean is floundering.

Castiel is not a replacement, precisely. Dean didn't have a sexual relationship with Sam. Dean wants to fall in love, and 'Anna', whoever she is, has convinced Dean that he can only truly do that with Castiel. Whether Dean wants Castiel to join in his criminal activities is debatable, but in theory Castiel would make an excellent killing partner because of his time in the FBI.

Some gut instinct, though, tells Castiel that Dean choosing him has nothing to do with that.

When Dean leaves to make dinner, Castiel weighs the pros and cons of opening up to Dean in turn. Pros: makes him a human in Dean's eyes, makes Dean more sympathetic and empathetic to Castiel's perspective and needs, likely would engender more trust on Dean's part. Cons: attaches Dean even more firmly to Castiel, encourages Dean to think Castiel is falling in love, possibly gives Dean information that can be used against Castiel and his family. Though the pros might make the last irrelevant. And Dean likely knows quite a bit about Castiel, including family details. It's not like it's hidden.

After dinner, which Castiel deliberately shares with Dean – Dean taking his spot near the doorway, but inside the room, without asking permission – Castiel begs off any more conversation, saying he's tired.

"Of course, yeah. Good night, Cas. I'll just switch the light off out here, okay?"

"Good night, Dean."

Castiel's sleep is troubled.

* * *

Castiel wakes to the odd sensation of absolutely knowing that someone is watching him. He bolts upright, eyes taking in the whole room, unfamiliar walls staring back at him, and then he searches both doorways and there's Dean, and then he remembers.

"Fuck," he mutters, covering his face.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I was just looking in, I swear, I wasn't being a total creep," Dean says, looking desperate to be believed. He's only wearing a pair of boxes and another worn t-shirt, muscular legs and slightly hairy feet bare. "In fact, I'll just go and get the day started," he says and then he's jogging out of sight and hearing before Castiel can react.

Castiel waits for his heart to slow before he lets himself think. Pros. Cons.

A couple of hours later, Dean returns with breakfast and an apology. "Sorry, had to take care of something before I could make waffles." He's got a sturdier paper plate this time, and a real fork to go with the waffles, which are dripping with syrup.

"Dean, do you ever intend on letting me go?"

Dean freezes in the middle of placing it on the floor. Then he looks Castiel in the eye and answers quietly, "I don't know."

And Castiel takes the leap. "Dean, please. They surely know I'm gone by now. My brother Balthazar is probably worried out of his mind."

Dean's face goes blank. Then he sets down the waffles and walks away.

"Shit shit shit," Castiel whispers. He screwed that up. Too soon, too little emotional connection to Castiel's plight.

Pacing doesn't have the same satisfaction when there's a chain dragging along the floor, so Castiel does situps instead. When his empty stomach roils in protest, he does pushups. Then squats. He can't practice a lot of the martial arts he knows because of his leg being restrained, but he does some. When his muscles ache, he finally gives up and grabs another book from the pile Dean left. This one purports to be a thorough scientific and historic examination of mermaids.

"Cas?" Dean's voice is gentle.

Castiel looks up to see Dean leaning against the door frame. "Yes?" he says, voice steady.

"Can I come in?"

Hesitating a second, but deciding he needs to give Dean something, he nods.

But rather than stop just inside, Dean walks all the way over to Castiel and very gingerly sits on the edge of the bed. Castiel puts the mermaid book aside and watches. Dean silently holds out his hand, an emotional but otherwise unreadable expression on his face.

"You want to … hold my hand."

Dean lifts his chin with a rather 'fuck you' expression on his face. "Yeah."

"I'm not gay," Castiel blurts.

Dean blinks, dropping his hand. Then says, "What about the guy in college?"

How does Dean even know about that? Did he hire a private investigator, or did he do it himself? "I wanted to piss someone off, so I made out with him," Castiel replies. "It worked."

"Oh, you're going to have tell me what prompted that," Dean says with a saucy grin, like an ember coming to life. When Castiel doesn't react, that grin fades. He holds out his hand again, palm up. "Please, Cas."

With a deep breath, a thousand doubts flashing through his mind, Castiel lays his hand in Dean's, palm down, almost like they're about to shake hands.

Dean's smile is heartbreakingly happy. He doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything except take a gentle grip on Castiel. It would be easy for Castiel to pull away, but he lets the touch linger. Dean's hand is warm and his skin very calloused, not just from holding and using knives, swords and guns, but also from simple manual labor. But physically, he looks well-cared for. Strong, healthy.

Castiel realizes he's afraid. Not just afraid – terrified. In a way he hadn't let himself acknowledge until right now. Dean has absolute power over him. All Castiel can do is say no, and Dean doesn't have to listen to that. And if he says yes, does that give more or less control?

Worry fills Dean's face. "What's wrong?"

Castiel looks away.

"You look scared. I won't hurt you, Cas."

"My brother always calls me Cassie. I hate it."

"I can call you Castiel, if you want," Dean says hesitantly.

Castiel looks into Dean's green eyes. "Cas is fine. I'm just – I'm just –" He trails off. He tries to take his hand away, but Dean tightens his grip and Castiel gives in, worried what Dean will do if he pushes it.

Gaze never faltering, Dean brings Castiel's hand up and kisses it, then lets Castiel go. He stands up and leaves Castiel's bed, backing up until he's in the hall. "I'm sorry, Cas, that I can't let you go. Not yet." Then he leaves, Castiel listening closely until he hears the soft padding stop.

Touching Castiel, then letting him go. Castiel both hopes and fears that's a metaphor for what will happen – because it means he'll get out of here. But after what?

* * *

Dean mostly leaves Castiel alone for the next several days. He comes by to give Castiel meals, and to add a mini-fridge to Castiel's room, filled with yogurts (Castiel's favorites) and juice and a carton of milk. There's one of each kind of fresh fruit in season, clearly an attempt to please on Dean's part. He doesn't linger during meals like before. Castiel in turn paces every corner of his room, examines the lights for weaknesses (none; he's pretty sure he'd shock himself trying to do anything with it, because it's ancient), attacks the lock in the bolt with fork spines (uselessly) and ponders what he could make out of a mini-fridge. Dean replaces any books he puts in the hall with even more random texts, mixed with some actual fiction.

Castiel also ponders violence. He somehow doubts Dean would let him, say, starve, even if Castiel physically assaulted Dean any time he got close. It's his last refuge of resistance against Dean's power over him.

And deep within, he panics.

His team at the BAU knows by now that he's missing. If Dean cleaned up, they may not know he was taken from his apartment, but he somehow thinks that Dean didn't really care about that. If they found the broken needle, it'll be obvious he was kidnapped and not simply killed. There's a thousand ways that they could discover it was Dean Winchester – a security camera, a noisy neighbor, any number of other mistakes Dean could have made.

If Hotchner and the rest know, then Balthazar has been informed. He's Castiel's next of kin. And for all his brother's bluster and sparkle, this was also the man who called Castiel every single week to tell him to be safe.

Dean is an organized, visionary serial killer, no matter how normal and kind he may seem (kidnapping itself aside). He may seem stable and he hasn't exhibited psychosis in Castiel's presence save for his explanations of past behavior, but he could become unhinged at any point. Castiel can't forget that.

One morning, Dean comes in and says, not looking at Castiel, "I'm going to leave you with a few weeks' worth of food. I have a hunt I can't get out of."

Castiel is at a loss for words, then he asks, "What if you're killed? What happens to me?"

"I won't be," Dean says, and now he sounds entirely confident. "Don't worry."

* * *

Logically, Castiel knows the following: he needs human contact, and if Dean is the only human contact he can get, he will take it; he will crave it. Lack of human contact is a form of torture. He knows this, but he still counts the days, waiting for Dean to return.

* * *

In order to stay sane, Castiel imposes a strict schedule, enforced by his wall clock that still sits on the floor. He exercises four times a day. The first few days he almost took it down to three, but came to the conclusion he'd need it near the end of his confinement. He's not rationing food. He's chosen to believe that Dean is correct and will come back – and not leave Castiel here to starve to death, or in a situation where he has to try to chop off his own foot. It's an odd sort of faith to have, one that exists more out of a need for it to exist than any actual trust.

Dean gave him an absolute mountain of books to read. Castiel is limiting himself to one a day and makes up quizzes in his head that he has to answer the next morning. There's basically fiction and more creative fiction, but like Dean's own explanations of the supernatural, it's surprisingly internally consistent. He starts cross referencing.

On day fifteen, he's meditating on the floor when he hears Dean come down the hall.

"Cas? You okay?"

Cas opens his eyes and lets the words stewing in his gut for the past two weeks come out. "What do you think? I haven't heard another human voice in two weeks. I'm forced to live in the same ninety square feet. I can't walk without being reminded of how trapped I am. I don't even have sunlight. I'm absolutely fucking peachy."

Dean pales. "I didn't think – I didn't –"

"But you _did_."

"I was alone for longer than that," Dean says, reflexively explaining. "In purgatory. Almost a year. I didn't even think about it. I'm sorry. Before you I would go a month or longer between seeing someone else, but I wasn't in one room and I had a TV – shit, Cas, I'm sorry."

"Fuck you," Castiel snarls. "Some soulmate." And that jab was intended only to hurt.

It succeeds. Dean flinches.

Castiel feels guilty, then feels angry he feels guilty. But it does stop any desire to continue ranting, and Castiel focuses on breathing evenly. He feels a sharp pang of loss when Dean leaves, which just pisses him of further. Dean didn't know? Is he even telling the truth when he says he's been alone longer? Purgatory? It didn't escape Castiel's notice that most of Dean's stories stopped four years ago. Can Castiel trust him that he didn't do this to torture Castiel? Fuck.

Castiel's childhood was one clean of curses, and now he wants to spill every single one he's learned in every dirty backroom.

Then Dean returns, book in hand. Castiel stares at him dumbly, but Dean just walks in without asking and sits in his usual spot, book in hand.

Dean clears his throat, still not making eye contact. "I figure you're not too likely to want to chat with me right now, 'cause you're pissed and I get that. I understand. So, I'm going to read this. 'Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange of mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. Mr. Dursley was …'"

The words sate some need in Castiel for another person's voice. Chapter three passes before Castiel feels like interrupting. "Where were you?"

Dean looks up, startled. "Anna needed help with something."

"Anna, the one who told you we were soulmates?"

Dean puts the book down. "Yeah. She's an angel. The one who pulled me out of hell, actually."

Castiel stares at him. Why is he even surprised? Dean had told him that him and Sam were meant to be angelic vessels, but he didn't think Dean would still be in contact with an 'angel' after those particular murders occurred. But now Dean talking about cupids makes more sense.

When Castiel continues to say nothing, Dean asks, "What do you need, Cas?"

"Keep reading."

Dean reads.

* * *

Dean does everything he can to apologize except let Castiel go. Now that Castiel has let Dean get enough close for an attack and not taken the opportunity, Dean provides Castiel with a side table, a chair, a flatscreen TV, a DVD player (plus DVDs) and a bookcase. A set of cards. An ipod. Nothing that Castiel can actually use to communicate with the outside world, but enough to keep him entertained well enough as a prisoner.

He even, somewhat hilariously to Castiel, gives Castiel a bell to ring when he wants something.

It strikes Castiel as somewhat counter-intuitive to Dean's goal. He wants Castiel to fall in love with him, to be emotionally dependent on him, and isolating him serves that far better than giving Castiel whatever he wants, excepting his freedom. Because of course Castiel did want Dean to come back during those two weeks. Hearing Dean read Harry Potter to him was comforting. He felt warm emotions in response to that care, despite knowing the psychological reasons for it.

Dean serves Castiel three delicious meals a day and spends each with Castiel, sitting just inside the doorway against the wall.

"So your brother calls you Cassie?" Dean asks, eating pasta.

Castiel shrugs, twirling his fork. "To annoy me."

"You don't talk to your sister?"

Castiel pauses, glances up at Dean. "Just Balthazar."

"What are they like?"

Should he tell Dean about his family? It would help Dean empathize with him more, but Castiel also fears it will make them targets if Castiel fails to cooperate.

"I won't hurt them," Dean adds. "I know that's what you're thinking, that if you talk them I'll notice them more or something. And I know I can tell you I'm not that kind of person until my face is blue, but seriously – this is kind of pointless, Cas, if you hate me."

Castiel blinks, puts his plate down.

"I just want to know you better. Fill in the blanks. You already know so much about me." Dean pauses. "Please?"

What Castiel knows of Dean's psychology actually supports that; his current behavior through this kidnapping, at least. Though probably the entire BAU could write a book on Dean Winchester and not untangle everything. "We were very tight-knit when I was young. Our parents and the four of us kids. It wasn't like my parents purposefully kept us separate from others, from our peers, just that everything was wrapped up so tightly in being a son, or brother."

Dean is listening raptly.

"My dad worked in carpentry. When I was about six he started teaching me, along with Michael and Balthazar. Hael was too young back then. But I remember spending hours in his workshop, sanding wood, helping Michael stain completed projects. We didn't talk, we just built. Creating piece after piece of art, for hours every day after school. It was like we had our own language, which no one else spoke. Even though we were all years apart, there we were the same. And I loved that, back then. All I wanted or needed was my family." Castiel looks up to see Dean, eyes soft and mouth firm. "When I was fifteen, Michael joined the military. And all of the sudden there was a missing piece. A missing happiness. I didn't see him again until years later, only four years before he died."

"I'm sorry," Dean says quietly. He looks down at his hands. "And I understand that. A lot. Like family is your whole world."

"Going to college was really hard for me, to associate with other people in the way … in the way normal people do." Castiel shrugs. "But it was also a new, open world, that I eventually grew to love living. Hael still lives at home, and she's happy there. I get letters from my parents, but I know they don't open mine, because I left like Michael did. I think because they don't want to feel pain if I … well, if I die."

"But not Balthazar?"

Castiel smiles. "Balthazar blossomed a lot more than I did. He embraced living out in the world like an addict. He doesn't like that my job is so dangerous, but he does understand, so he supports me." His smile fades. "I know he's worried." Castiel decides to let it go at that.

"Thank you, Cas." Sincere, heart-felt.

Castiel stares nothing, remembering that familiar ache of wanting something that doesn't really exist the way you thought it did. Maybe Dean does understand that. Then he tries to jerk himself out of it, focus on something else. "I don't suppose you made dessert?"

"I've got some pie," Dean says. "Cherry and apple." At Castiel's look, he adds, "Hey, I love me some pie. Better than cake."

"Cherry, please."

"Cherry it is!"

* * *

Castiel is just beginning to get used to his new normal (thirty-eight days) when Dean upsets it. Just after lunch, Dean disappears for several hours in the bunker. Castiel is starting to get an idea of how big the place is based on little things Dean has said about having a commercial size kitchen, barracks, and 'the dungeon.' Plus the comment about how 'even this place' has been followed by the supernatural. Castiel still can't decide if he was referencing his own family in regards to this place. If so, that would be a good way for the FBI to track him down, even if the connection is a few generations past.

Dean knocks on the door frame and Castiel looks up from his ipod. He doesn't have any kind of internet connection, of course, but Dean lets him write songs he wants on a piece of paper. It'd come with a selection of eighties rock.

In his hand Dean holds a cuff, more silver than steel. It looks too big for a wrist. "Hey, Cas. This is for you."

Very carefully, Castiel puts the ipod down. "What do you mean?" he asks warily.

Dean enters without permission and holds it out. "If you put this on, I'll take the other one off."

"Why would you do that?" It has no chain, no link for a chain. Instead scrolling text circles it. The closure doesn't have a lock either.

"It has a spell on it," Dean says, green eyes flicking up. "You won't be able to leave the bunker, or go in any area I made off-limits. But you could get around a lot easier, and it's a lot lighter, and you wouldn't have to wear those pants."

Castiel has to shut down the urge to immediately say yes. If Dean believes this little thing will keep Castiel locked in here, he can use that. As soon as this other one is released, he can attack Dean and get out of here. He won't have to kill Dean, just disable him for a few hours, steal Dean's car. Hope surges, wild. Should he wait? No. He has to take this opportunity. "Okay." And holds out his hand.

Dean grins at him, like he's won something.

The cuff opens easily and he places it on his left ankle, closing it with a quiet snip. The edges of the closure seem to disappear as he does it, but he doesn't let that worry him. They can use the jaws of life or something to get it off if need be.

"I'll be back with the key for that one," Dean says, pointing at the chain, and then he sweeps out of the room. He's back in less than five minutes, oddly shaped key in hand and kneels at Castiel's feet.

As soon as the old manacle falls away, Castiel kicks Dean in the face hard enough it'd knock out most people. Dean lands with a grunt, blood flowing from his nose, but he's already twisting, legs moving to sweep Castiel's out from under him. Castiel just steps back out of reach, and then when Dean gets to his knees he uses his height advantage again, going in for several quick, downward jabs. He wants to knock Dean out.

Then Dean jolts forwards, hitting Castiel's midsection. Castiel ducks to the side before Dean can bring him to the wall, and after that it becomes an equal fight.

Castiel started mixed martial arts training in college, but the NY police force and the FBI polished it to a fine sheen. Castiel's technique is beautiful and he spars regularly. Dean has the experience of countless dirty fights, and he's _good_. Ruthless. Their battle is over the whole room, using the TV and chair, even the table. In another fight, Dean would win on the basis of knowing not only how to give a hit but how to take it, how to turn any situation against his attacker. But his head has been knocked around and it slows his reflexes enough that Castiel is able to use his better training and get a perfect hit in.

Dean goes down, out cold.

Castiel stares down at his unconscious body for several precious seconds. Adrenaline and a strange sort of terror mix. Then he grabs his old manacle and puts it around Dean's ankle, but the damn thing won't close. The weirdly shaped key is no help. Deciding he doesn't have the time to find a way to restrain Dean, he takes off.

Being in the hall feels weird. Scary. Has he really gotten so used to being kept in a single room?

He bolts. Doors blur as he runs down hallways, searching for stairs. He goes past a huge locker room, past a gigantic library that looks like something out of a movie set, and then finds the stairs to the upper part of the bunker. He runs up and sees the kitchen. Knives. A set of car keys on the counter.

Oh God, yes.

Then something jerks on his left ankle and he falls flat on his face.

He looks behind him, at his ankle, but there's nothing in the wide doorway for Castiel to trip on. He pulls backwards, but his left foot won't move. Mind whirling with confusion, he goes the other direction, back to the hallway. Nothing impedes him. Then he steps forward, and his left ankle catches _again_.

The cuff won't pass the doorway.

What the fuck?

He lifts his left leg like he's stepping over something and tries again, but the ankle cuff freezes him in midair. He can rotate his ankle and the angle of the cuff relative to the floor, but it won't move forward no matter how hard he pulls, how hard he pushes with all his weight. The rest of his body will move over the invisible line, but not the cuff. What is this?

Dean said it was a spell. But Dean is _insane_. Magic isn't real.

The cuff won't let him move. Castiel doesn't – he doesn't – what is happening?

"Told you," comes Dean's voice.

Rather than press up against the invisible barrier, Castiel steps forward so he has room to react.

Dean comes up the stairs, wiping his bloody mouth. His noise is still bleeding freely, and he's a cut on his forehead from the TV Castiel had shoved at him. He doesn't look upset so much as he looks pissed.

Terror thrums. "What did you do to me?" Castiel demands. "What did you _do_?"

Dean smiles with bloody teeth. "Magic." He spits out blood. "Also, I've been knocked out a lot over the years. It doesn't take quite as well as it used to."

Castiel swallows dryly. "Dean –"

"Save it," Dean says. "I thought we were past this. At least past you wanting to kick the crap out of me."

"You thought we were past this?" Castiel shouts. "You're my kidnapper! You've held me against my will! My brother – my brother probably thinks I'm dead in some freak's basement!"

Dean flinches.

"You're a serial killer with delusions –"

"Am I?" Dean demands. "Magic isn't real? Why can't you get past that line, then?" He waves his hand at the kitchen. "My keys are right there. Go get them."

Castiel stares at him numbly. He needs to get control. Control of the situation and Dean, because if he can't escape then he needs Dean to care for him. "I didn't want to hurt you, Dean."

Dean's jaw clenches. "Having a hard time believing that right now, Cas."

Castiel laughs, because it's not even a lie. He does care about Dean. Dean is – Dean is funny, and kind in his own way. He's crazy, but he loved his brother. He's capable of love, and selfless sacrifice, and all of that was unspoken, nothing Dean laid claim to. Castiel only wishes Dean could see his way of the delusions he has so tightly wound around himself.

When there's no more words, Dean gets a set of handcuffs from his pocket and dangles them on one finger. "You going to cooperate?"

Castiel glares at him. And attacks.

This time Dean doesn't hold back. And Castiel realizes he _was_ holding back before – not a lot, but some. He's able to hold Dean off for several minutes, but he takes blow after blow. Castiel ends up on the floor once Dean uses the bizarre barrier to trip Castiel up. He's lost the fight, he knows that on the intellectual level, but he doesn't give up struggling until Dean grabs his hair and slams his head into the concrete floor hard enough to daze him. Dean rolls him onto his stomach before grabbing his wrists and cuffing him. At that point, feeling sick, Castiel goes limp.

He wants to cry, realizes he is when it drips off his nose. It's pink from blood. Dean raises him up by the arm just like a police officer would to avoid injury and drags him back to his cell. Castiel has to stumble along on only one good foot, body aching. Dean dumps Castiel on the bed face first.

When Castiel rolls to the side, his weight uncomfortably on one arm, he sees several smears of blood on the sheets.

Dean gets close, eyes dark with anger. "You done?"

Swallowing bitter blood, Castiel says, "Yes."

Dean uncuffs his wrists, and then pulls Castiel's left up and cuffs him to the headboard, which Castiel knows from previous experience is bolted to the wall. Castiel shifts with his right hand so he's on his back and the cuff isn't pulling so hard at his wrist. Dean watches him do it, silent, and then turns on his heel and leaves the room. Cell.

Castiel breathes through a tight throat, waiting for him to return. He has no idea how Dean is going to punish him for this, but he's not looking forward to it. He's never tested Dean like this before. Hell, he's never beaten the crap out of Dean before. The fact that Dean returned the favor may not be enough. His body is sore, and he's got cuts on his face and hands, both offensive and defensive injuries. Turning his head still makes his vision blur. Defeated, anxious and afraid, he closes his eyes.

"Cas."

Castiel tries to get a word past his dry throat, fails.

"Cas, open your eyes. I need to check your head."

Dean blurs into existence. He's holding a first aid kit, which he settles on the bed. He leans in with a small flashlight, which he flashes in Castiel's eyes. "Pupils equal and reactive. No concussion," he says. Leaving the kit at Castiel's feet, he moves forward until he can flip up Castiel's shirt, and then he carefully presses down on Castiel's ribcage, checking each rib. "Anything else hurt? Wrists, ankles?"

"My left wrist. I think I sprained it," Castiel finally replies. It's the cuffed one.

Dean silently gets up and gets the key. "You going to fight me?" he asks, poised to uncuff him. "I'm going to switch it to your left."

"I won't fight you."

Dean switches the cuff to the other wrist, then carefully examines Castiel's right. Castiel has had to get checked out for a broken wrist before, and he recognizes the doctor's method in Dean's. It makes him wonder, for a second, how many injuries Dean and Sam got and patched for each other. "Not broken," Dean decides. "Feet?"

"My left. Only sprained, I think."

Dean nods. "That it besides the cuts and bruises?"

"Yes."

Dean stares into Castiel's eyes. "I could have really hurt you, you know that, right?"

"Am I still allowed to be honest?"

Dean purses his lips and doesn't reply, eyes going flat. He gets a disinfectant and cleans Castiel's cuts, but doesn't cover most of them except with a few butterfly bandages. He checks the bruises he can easily see but doesn't comment. Then he goes to the bathroom with the kit to treat his own injuries – Castiel can see him from the bed, going through the same checks and medical care he gave Castiel.

The adrenaline and anger has drained out of Castiel, leaving a deep pit of worry and fear. He watches as Dean climbs back onto the bed, taking up the large empty space on his right, and his breath hitches. Dean lays down close enough that Castiel feel him breathing against Castiel's side. Dean shifts around, clearly getting comfortable, then settles a hand on Castiel's stomach. He glances up at Castiel, green eyes even darker against the dark bruise on his cheekbone that Castiel gave him. He doesn't look angry.

The pose is like a parody of lovers, Castiel's arm above his head not to let Dean in, but because he's cuffed. And Dean, curled up to him and only able to find one safe space to put his arm, because the rest of Castiel is too bruised.

That hand is like a burn, a mark. Dean has never touched him without asking Castiel's permission since choking him to unconsciousness in his apartment. Perhaps the fact that Castiel has to frame it that way means he shouldn't have expected anything less.

Dean inches closer until they're pressed together from shoulder to knee. He's warm, his body running hot compared to the people Castiel has let into his bed over the years. Something in Castiel wants to relax into it, to give in and give up. Tears prick his eyes, but he forces them back and breathes deeply. This is a touch. That's all it is. Nothing harmful here.

Dean is crazy, but he does care about Castiel.

Then he murmurs into Castiel's shirt, "It'll be okay, Cas. Just rest, okay?"

Despite himself, after about forty-five minutes of Dean's absolute stillness Castiel does fall asleep. He only realizes it when he wakes up with the vague notion that it's been several hours. For a few seconds he thinks he's home, in his apartment, and then for the next ten to twenty seconds he thinks he's just in his room in Dean's bunker. Then he feels the warm fingers gently stroking his hipbone, just under the waistband of his pants. A rough thumb makes circles, then the tips of Dean's fingers caresses his skin, before doing it all over again. The touch is incredibly intimate. He stops breathing, looking down at Dean, who looks up sleepily.

He places his left hand on Dean's. "Please don't," he whispers.

Dean withdraws, disappointment clear on his face – as well as a lack of surprise. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I swear I tried to do as little damage as possible."

It's certainly true Dean could have broken bones, but Castiel isn't sure he can attribute that to an unwillingness to hurt Castiel. Permanently, anyway. "What are you going to do?"

"Do?" Dean asks, looking puzzled.

"To me."

Dean sits up, eyeing Castiel closely. "I'll make you a deal."

Heart dropping to his stomach, Castiel asks, "What kind of deal?"

"First, I want to be sure this –" he waves at Castiel and himself – "doesn't happen again. Your parole. No attacking me. You keep the ankle cuff you have now." He does an odd half shrug. "I won't insist on no escape attempts, just no violence. Second … second, we share a bed. To sleep," he adds hastily. "Only to sleep. And in return, I'll let you write your brother a letter, letting him know you're okay."

Castiel blinks several times.

Dean licks his lips nervously, wincing his lip starts bleeding again. "What do you say?"

"I … can I think about it?"

"Sure," Dean immediately agrees. He gets off the bed and then pauses mid step. "Do you need to piss yet?"

"No."

"Okay, good. I'll be back," he says and pads silently out of Castiel's room.

Castiel thinks about Michael. He knows the military's SERE code of conduct demands that a prisoner of war not give parole, and to resist whenever possible. The FBI's stance is slightly different due to the nature of their work and those agents are most likely to come in contact with, counter-terrorism excepting. The BAU in particular is focused on the subject's psychology. A visionary killer like Dean is less likely to be persuaded by threats, because he believes he's doing the work of God (or someone equally as important) and is willing to die for the cause. Hedonistic killers are more likely to be persuaded by appealing to their instinct to survive. The key is always to find the weak point and exploit it in order to force surrender or capture.

What is Castiel's duty here? Hotchner's voice in the back of his mind says it's to survive long enough to be rescued.

If he writes that letter and Dean actually sends it, he can communicate something to the FBI. Dean's name, their probable location (somewhere in the Midwest, at least two days of travel), his own true status. He has only Dean's word that Dean will follow through, but it's more than Castiel has now.

Dean walks in with a sealed water bottle, which he opens and then hands to Castiel. The cool water is soothing on Castiel's throat, and for some reason it gives Castiel the courage to speak. "Dean."

Dean raises his eyebrows in question.

"Yes. I agree."

A slow, almost bashful smile fills Dean's face. "Do FBI agents swear on their honor?"

Castiel tilts his head. "I can, if you insist."

Dean just smiles again, a sad tinge to it this time. "No, that's not necessary. You'll either keep to it or you won't."

True enough. "Will you release me?" Castiel asks, jangling the cuff.

Dean stares at him for a long moment. Castiel can't help wondering what's going on his head, if he's doubting Castiel's parole, what he plans on doing tonight, if Castiel is going to get fucked by this in more ways than one. But maybe that's just Castiel's fear. There's really no doubts on Dean's face as much as an analyzing curiosity. Dean digs into his pocket and gets the key, walks to Castiel's side and releases the cuff.

Rubbing his wrist gives Castiel something to do. Then a thought occurs to him. "Magnets?"

Dean blinks. "Huh?"

"The ankle cuff," Castiel says. "Is that how you did it? Magnets?"

Dean laughs. Full, hearty, sincere. "Dude, I told you. It's magic. I did a spell. I didn't install industrial magnets in the doorways." He rubs his head. "Besides, wouldn't you notice the attraction a lot sooner in that case and be slammed into one of the walls? Instead of just having the barrier there?"

Castiel opens his mouth, then closes it. "True," he mutters.

"You feel well enough to walk? I'll show you where you can go."

And Castiel can test this magical barrier. "All right." He gets up, limps over to Dean.

Dean's expression changes from being amused to concerned in a second. "I forgot about your ankle. Here, hold onto me."

Castiel hesitates, looking at Dean, and then hesitates again when Dean silently comes to his side. Then he holds out a hand which Dean brings over his shoulder, letting Castiel put his weight onto Dean. Dean doesn't smell like blood anymore, and his hair is still faintly wet. Under the scent of shampoo is Dean himself, a surprisingly pleasant musk.

This close he can even see the freckles on Dean's face. The way his eyes shift from hazel to green.

Dean keeps up a running commentary as they slowly make their way through the permitted parts of the bunker, talking about random hunts ("Then there was the time a chupacabra followed us home. Nice pet. Not.") and more personal details ("First home since Baby. I mean, my car, the Impala. You know what I mean."). Most of the bedrooms are empty; Castiel's was apparently the 'commander' of the 'Men of Letters' and that's why that room alone has its own bathroom. Dean uses the locker room, which Castiel also has access to for no discernible reason. Dean's room ends up being around the turn in the hallway, close to the stairs. When Castiel tries to enter, the ankle cuff stops him again.

Of course Dean smirks, but he doesn't say anything except, "I want to trust you, but I'm not stupid." The room itself is homey and full of odd knickknacks, as well as a few distinctly not ornamental weapons on the wall, including an axe. All are well out of Castiel's limited reach. Sam's bedroom is two doors down, marked only with Dean saying, "This is Sam's." He puts a palm on the door, but doesn't open it. Since Dean is supporting a portion of Castiel's weight, Castiel can feel Dean's small shiver.

"I see," Castiel says softly. He deliberately leans a little into Dean, trying to offer comfort, and Dean gives him a small smile.

The library is partially accessible. The spell won't let him get farther in than about ten feet, and unlike the other barriers, this one is in midair with no walls nearby.

Dean lets Castiel go, says, "Go ahead. Test it."

Castiel gives him a wary look, but does.

Since the cuff is on his sprained ankle, testing it is easy. Castiel hops around, pulling and testing. There's no hum, no visible or audible sign of why he can't move the cuff beyond that point. There's nothing on the ground either. However Dean marked the … the spell, it didn't leave a sign behind.

"Baffled?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel sits in a chair next to a bookcase. "Tell me about the murders, then."

Dean blinks, but goes with it. He takes a seat out of Castiel's reach, legs spread and relaxed. "It was a wendigo, the case in Wyoming. Basically created when a human eats enough human flesh, then they turn into, you know, that. Only way to kill them is to burn them alive." Dean shrugs. "I wanted to get it asleep in its cave, but it woke up while I was hiking through the forest, so I had to improvise. I'm thinking it killed a few hunters before I got to it. I stayed behind a few days to make sure there wasn't a partner, because I saw some indications there might have been another one, but no dice."

"And you believe that?"

"I believe it like you believe the sky is blue."

"Except at dawn, dusk or night," Castiel can't help adding.

Dean laughs. "Exactly! Yeah, exactly. I'm the one who's stalking around the darkness and seeing what no one else thinks about, because everyone knows the sky is blue."

That … kind of makes sense.

"Is this your proof, then?" Castiel asks. "That everything you've told me is real?"

Dean shifts. "Well. I was thinking about calling Anna here, actually. The ankle cuff you're wearing, I only found a reference to it in the library about a week ago. Started setting it up then."

"Anna, the angel?"

Dean nods. "Call in a favor."

Castiel supposes he has two options: Dean is right, to some degree, or Castiel has also lost his mind. Madness can be contagious. But Castiel doesn't feel mad, or even the surety of the mad; he feels angry and confused, and hopelessly lost in a world he would have sworn yesterday didn't exist. Of course it's just a cuff that obeys mysterious barriers, not a ghost or an angel of God talking to him, but Castiel's not stupid. Where's there is one crack, there's more.

When he looks up, Dean looks – surprised. "You believe me."

"I believe something," Castiel says honestly. He also believes that regardless of magic being real, kidnapping an FBI agent because you think he's your soulmate isn't the sanest of actions. He clears his throat and holds out his hand. "Continue the tour?"

Dean gives him a look that is grateful and pleased. In a way, it's very easy to please Dean. "Sure."

Castiel can't access the kitchen, or the front of the bunker, or the garage, or the firing range, but Dean lets him take a peek at all of them.

"There's also a dungeon," Dean admits. "Not a sex-torture dungeon. Honestly. It's just really secure and can be used for a prison for various supernatural creatures, and it has an armory nearby."

"Well, I don't mind skipping that portion," Castiel says, though of course he wishes he could get a good look at the armory.

Dean grins, then says, "We should head back to your room. Your ankle won't last much longer, anyway. If you push it too far it'll take longer to heal."

Spoken like it's from personal experience. "All right."

Castiel's room is still a mess. Dean sets him on the bed which, aside from some blood smears, is the only thing in the room left intact. The TV is shattered. The DVD player survived by virtue of being smaller. The chair is missing a leg. The table is still there, having miraculously survived despite a body being thrown on it. The mini-fridge was knocked over and has a dent, but still works. Dean clears away all the debris without comment, taking several trips to do it.

He works despite being just as beaten as Castiel is. Castiel will and has pushed his body to the limit, but that was fairly uncommon and he always had the opportunity to take days off after. Dean doesn't get that. Of course he chose this, but. Feeling absurd even as he does it, Castiel says, "I'm sorry."

Dean's head whips around. "Do you actually mean that?"

Castiel shrugs, picking at his blanket. "I think so."

Dean looks down. "You can still be honest," he says, answering Castiel's question from hours before.

Castiel nods slightly.

After the last round, Dean returns with a piece of paper and a pen. "You write it once, no edits," he says. "Can't say anything about where you are or who took you."

That will make hiding a secret message considerably harder, especially since Castiel has next to no experience doing so. Reid always figured out puzzles like that. Castiel takes the paper and pen, staring at the blank page for almost a full minute before working out how he needs to get this message across, quickly and without being terribly obvious. If Dean takes the time to stare at it, he might figure it out – Castiel doesn't know how much Dean does or doesn't know about stenography – so Castiel can only hope this works.

 _Dear Balthazar,_

 _Everything is all right. All that's happened is that I went somewhere for a while. Nothing bad has happened, and I haven't been hurt. While I know this seems to have come out of nowhere, I've been thinking about going away and taking a break for a long time. I'm doing well where I am – I'm well fed and I'm finally getting as much sleep as you always said I should. Now, I know this is a little late, but take care of my apartment, will you? Can't lose that good of a lease. Hael's letters must be piling up, please take care of them, too. Even after everything, I want to read them. Save anything our parents send. The FBI has probably fired me by now for taking off so suddenly, but don't worry about that – I'm okay. Really, I'm doing well._

 _Michael always said we should take the time in our lives to really live. I'm doing what he wanted, finally. Don't worry about me. While you're a bit of an asshole sometimes, I'll always love you. Even after you stole my first girlfriend. Stay in Texas, be happy. Til then,_

 _Castiel._

"I don't think they're going to think this isn't coerced," Dean says.

"You said I couldn't say where I was or what happened, what else do you expect?" Castiel asks, trying not to sweat.

Dean shrugs. "All right."

The first letter of every sentence spells out Dean Winchester, and the second paragraph spells out all Castiel has been able to figure out about where he is - that he's in the Midwest somewhere. Dean has been absurdly careful about not letting slip what state they're in. Castiel isn't sure he knows the point except for this kind of communication, which he frankly didn't think Dean would ever allow. Just in case, Castiel also marks the same letters in random words by shaping the individual letter in a different way than the rest. But he thinks that if Dean actually sends this letter, the BAU won't have a problem figuring out what he's trying to say.

And not just the hidden message. But telling Balthazar to take care of his lease, to keep their family's letters.

Castiel hasn't given up on escaping. Not yet.

Dean actually brings back an envelope and a stamp (a vague 'forever' stamp, to Castiel's disappointment, not a state one) and seals the letter in front of Castiel. "Next time I'm in a major hub, I'll drop it off. I promise."

"Thank you, Dean."

After dinner, both of them bruised and finally really feeling it, Castiel asks for privacy to take a shower. Dean grants it, of course. He's never even seen Castiel unclothed. As Castiel stands in the hot shower, fully naked, he lets himself think about what's coming next. Sharing a bed with Dean. And not just tonight, but every night that Dean is here.

Dean doesn't strike Castiel as a rapist, no. But he also definitely lacks a clear sense of boundary. Castiel doesn't think it's about power so much as a desire to be loved in return. Dean probably made the deal in the first place because he wants intimacy that isn't necessarily sex, but that is still (in Dean's mind, at least) romantic.

Boxers. Pajama bottoms, a t-shirt. Socks. His armor.

When he opens the bathroom door, letting the steam out, he sees Dean lying on the bed, over the covers, wearing only a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. The light in the hall is still on, but the bedroom one is off, so it's somewhat dark. He looks up at Castiel, mouth slightly open and eyebrows slightly raised in a way that Castiel knows means that Dean is feeling nervous and self-conscious. But he doesn't say, 'It's okay, you can sleep alone.' He doesn't say, 'I'll let go of that part of our deal.' He stares at Castiel, hopeful.

"I won't do anything sexual, I swear," Dean tells him.

Castiel nods, tries to do so with certainty. "I know." He slips into bed, pulling the covers over himself and lies with his back facing Dean.

Dean gets under the covers, shaking the bed. A gentle hand touches the small of Castiel's back. "Can I hold you?" Dean whispers.

Castiel freezes. Then forces himself to relax. "Hands on clothes, not under."

"Noted." Dean's hand moves from his back to settle on his waist. He moves close enough that Castiel can feel his hot breath on the back of his neck, and one leg barely touches the back of Castiel's. But that's as far as he goes. "Good night, Cas."

Castiel stares at the far wall and wonders what he's gotten himself into.


	3. Chapter 3

Feedback is loved!

 **Warnings (spoilers):** Dubcon kissing.

* * *

Dean is curled around Castiel as the big spoon when Castiel wakes up the next morning. All through the night Castiel woke up, afraid because of Dean's nearness and vague half-nightmares. But Dean's been in this same position all night. Thigh to thigh, hip to hip. Dean isn't hard, as far as Castiel can tell. An ankle lies on top of Castiel's, and his t-shirt has rucked up in his sleep enough that Dean's hand on his waist is touching skin. As Castiel's brain really starts working itself into high gear, he hears Dean make a sleepy noise and shift, his hand clenching enough that his nails curl across Castiel's skin. It tickles, and Castiel can't help flinching.

Dean freezes. "Oh, sorry," he says sleepily, withdrawing and rolling onto his back.

Castiel looks over his shoulder cautiously, but Dean just blinks at him and then rubs his face.

"G'morning," Dean says, and rolls out of bed.

"Good morning."

Dean pauses at the doorway. "Want to join me for breakfast? I'll set up a dining table where you can sit."

"All right."

"Do you need help?" Dean asks. "You will have to get up the stairs."

Castiel hesitates, then nods. "Yes, thank you."

"I just figured you would want to get out of here," Dean says, waving at the room.

Is Dean concerned Castiel doubts his motivation? "I figured that."

Without any more comment, Dean goes to Castiel's side and gets his shoulder under Castiel's arm, bearing most of their combined weight. Technically, they're closer now than they were in bed, with all of Dean's body pressed up tight against Castiel's. Castiel can even feel the warmth of Dean's exhale. Dean isn't touching Castiel any more than he has to, but he's also not avoiding physical contact. He keeps a slow pace for Castiel, before leaving him in an empty space that Castiel figures is similar enough to a dining room. The kitchen is fully in sight, but the invisible barrier is firmly in place.

Dean grabs a folding table and a very, very old wooden chair. Castiel sits and watches as Dean brings in another chair, then goes into the kitchen to begin preparing breakfast. Eggs and toast, this time.

"So," Dean begins conversationally, "how did you get into the FBI?"

Castiel frowns. "Do you not already know the answer?"

Dean freezes in the middle of breaking an egg. "Facts on paper aren't the same," he says at last.

Deciding to accept that even he doesn't actually buy it, Castiel says, "I almost followed Michael into the military, but Balthazar convinced me that I could do good here, too." Castiel hesitates. "He actually got very drunk and told me that he knew Michael was going to end up dead, and he didn't want me dead, too. I don't even know if he remembered it in the morning, but the look in his eyes …"

Dean is looking at him, soft and concerned. He nods silently, complete understanding in his eyes.

"So, double major in criminal justice and psychology led me directly into law enforcement. While working as a police officer I got my masters in criminal psychology. Worked in homicide for a bit, then applied to the FBI. After that, it was just a matter of working within the agency and getting work done on cases. I was lent to the BAU during a specific case, but they ended up keeping me." Castiel spreads his hands. "Not much more to it than that."

Dean nods thoughtfully. He grabs two slices of bread and pops them in the toaster. "You like the work?"

"I do. It's satisfying to bring people to justice and prevent more crime from occurring." Castiel shrugs. "Well, when it actually works out that way. There's often unsolved cases, and even more paperwork."

"I hear ya," Dean says, laughing. "Hunting is the same way. Well, excluding the paperwork. That was more like wasting your time on kids playing pranks."

Interesting that Dean views it as similar to law enforcement. A similar kind of job, anyway. The invisible magical barrier is three feet away. How much of what Dean says is real? Is it possible he is insane, but some of what he speaks of is true? Even a broken clock is right twice during the day. Or has Dean been misjudged all along? But if so, how the hell has no one noticed that the supernatural is real after all this time? "Dean …"

"Yeah?" Dean flops scrambled eggs onto two plates and taps the counter while he waits for the toast.

"Do you like me?"

Confusion flashes across Dean's face. "Of course I do."

"But why? You don't even know me. Why are you going to all this trouble to keep me here? I know you said we were soulmates, but I have a hard time accepting – after everything you've told me – that you believe in any kind of fate."

Dean ignores the toast that pops up. Instead, he walks to Castiel. Then, he kneels, almost like he's about to propose, but his face is deadly serious. "I don't believe in fate, you're right. But I believe what I feel. What I know. My gut." He looks away for a moment. "I love Sam. I will never stop loving Sam. That God or whoever made us brothers, I don't care about that. It's the same with you. I can't, I can't be apart from you, now that I know you. Losing Sam nearly killed me. You would finish the job, and I made a promise to him that I'd live."

Castiel breathes. Thinks. Wonders.

Dean inhales and exhales rapidly, emotion rising in his eyes. "You and me, we do the same thing. We help people. Even after all the shit I have put you through, you give a damn about me. And that's before you even believe that I'm not a serial killer. I want you, Cas. And I'm willing to wait until you feel the same way."

Castiel looks away. "I … I don't know if I can do that, Dean."

Dean rises to his feet. "It's okay," he says. Is all he says. "You want cheese on your eggs?"

Clearing his throat gives him a second to adapt. "Very well."

"You know, that's another thing about you," Dean says, grabbing a block of cheese. "You always speak so correctly. 'All right,' 'Very well,' and 'Thank you.' It's, y'know, cute."

"Proper diction is cute?" Is Dean flirting with him?

"Yep," Dean says with a grin, grating the cheese quickly and dumping it on both plates. He hands Castiel his.

Definitely flirting. After promising that he's never going to let Castiel go, and more or less promising to stop any escape attempts. Maybe Dean sees that kind of obsession as romantic. Did he feel the same way about Sam, that possessive need to be near his brother? How had Sam responded? Sam went to college for four years, had an entire life that was, from what the FBI can tell, perfectly normal. Then Dean came, his girlfriend died under suspicious circumstances, and he was on the road for the rest of his life. "I see," he says as neutrally as possible, then digs into breakfast.

"What do you want to do today?" Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Go for a walk outside?" Castiel asks dryly.

"I can get a shitton of nature documentaries, if you want." It comes out slightly garbled, then Dean swallows. "Though I can't promise they won't put me to sleep."

Castiel gathers the last of the eggs on his toast. "How about arranging to meet Anna? I'd like to see proof of your story."

Dean nods. "Anna is pretty busy trying to play sheriff in heaven, but I'll set it up."

"Thank you." Pause. "Thanks."

Dean laughs.

* * *

That night, Castiel lays on his right side – facing the other side of the bed – just to see what Dean will do. Dean crawls into bed wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt, like the night before, but this time he faces Castiel and just _looks_ at him. He starts with Castiel's waist, where a sliver of skin shows. Then up his chest to his neck, lingering there, before staring hard at Castiel's lips and his eyes. He examines the healing bruises and cuts he'd left on Castiel's skin, expression both intent and concerned. His gaze even drifts to Castiel's messy hair and to where Castiel's hand lies flat on the bed. "Good night," Dean says.

Castiel wakes up with a moving pillow. It takes him a full second to realize his head is lying on Dean's chest, that he's got an arm slung over Dean's stomach and his leg pressed against Dean's. He can feel the short and wiry hairs on Dean's leg, and he twitches when Dean flexes his foot, skin sliding on skin. He can feel his face heat up with embarrassment, and a small amount of humiliation. He can't believe he did in this in his sleep. He's rarely even slept in the same bed as someone else, how could he be this comfortable with another person? He'd expected to wake up repeatedly (half scared of his mind) like he did last night, not … cuddle.

Castiel begins to shift off, as circumspectly as possible.

"Don't go," Dean whispers.

Rather than answer out loud, Castiel sits up and turns away. Dean doesn't stop him.

"Cas, please."

Castiel wraps his arms around himself, as if to hold himself in. In control. He rubs his face and breathes deeply, but he still feels the beginnings of a sob welling in his chest. Fear has been his constant companion, rarely acknowledged but ever present. Castiel has been put under huge stress before, during fights with criminals, being shot, going to the FBI, then catching serial killers. But at the end of a few weeks (usually), he went home. He de-stressed.

So in a way, Castiel knows this has been building.

The bed shakes when Dean gets up, and then Dean is circling the bed, head dipping to look Castiel in the eye.

Castiel finally looks at him, miserable. He shakes.

Dean looks shocked. "Cas. What's wrong?"

Castiel covers his face, pulls his hair. "Dean, please leave me alone."

"No. No, not until I know you're okay. You're freaking me out here, are you having a panic attack?"

"Please." Castiel swallows. "I need to regain control."

Dean is silent for almost a full minute. Then, "You're collapsing under the stress. I've been expecting this, but I thought it would happen a lot sooner."

Castiel pulls up his knees, lays his head on them, and puts his hands over his head. He feels the dip in the mattress as Dean settles on the bed. Then an arm wraps around his shoulders, bringing him in to the warm body next to him. The serial killer next to him. The maybe/maybe not insane Dean Winchester, who the FBI has hunted for a decade. A cuff that won't let Castiel run, one that he has no explanation for. The possibility of his own insanity. Castiel is horribly weak for letting this effect him this much, but he can't help the deep shuddering breaths he has to take. It feels like it lasts forever, the surges of panic that he fights down, the sobs that want to come out – but he refuses. He fucking _refuses_.

He pushes Dean off and stands, staring resolutely at the bathroom door. "I want to take a shower."

Dean steps away. "I'll make some oatmeal. Easy on the stomach." Then he's gone.

Forty days in. Forty-two or forty-three, if you count the ones he spent unconsciousness. He takes a shower so hot that his skin flushes red and dresses in the clothes Dean gives him. He eats the food Dean gives him. He reads the books that Dean gives him. He has nothing of his own.

Dean chatters for the rest of the day, talking about his favorite movies and TV series (Dr. Sexy? Really?), blathering about food prices and how expensive gas is these days. He spends an entire hour discussing car maintenance with himself. Despite Dean's attempts, though, Castiel remains wired the rest of the day.

B y the time evening comes, Castiel is exhausted and falls asleep before Dean comes to bed.

In the middle of the night he wakes to whispers. Dean whispering, so very quietly, "I'll take care of you. I'll take good care of you."

In the morning, Dean is curled around him protectively, murmuring comforts sleepily whenever Castiel moves.

The day after that, day forty-two, Castiel wakes to Dean's hand splayed across his stomach, under his shirt. Castiel should be angry with Dean for not following his request, but he doubts it was intentional. Dean is snoring loudly in his ear, but even in his sleep when Castiel tries to get up, he clenches tight and mutters something Castiel can't make out. Day forty-three, Dean kisses the back of his neck before fully waking up and then apologizes. Day forty-four, Dean thanks him before they go to bed for not freaking out on him. Castiel is bemused but says, "You are welcome."

Day forty-five, Castiel has a nightmare.

It's vague, but terrifying in its vagueness, the way dreams sometimes are. Dean is a focal point of it, appearing and disappearing. Demons and ghosts flicker in and out, and Dean is there, but Castiel can't tell if he's helping them or hunting them. Then it changes to the bunker, and Dean is curled around him, and Castiel can't tell if he's helping Castiel or hunting him.

Then he wakes up with a cry.

"Cas! Cas, calm down, it's okay, it was just a dream," Dean murmurs into his ear. His arm is around Castiel's shoulders, hand rubbing Castiel's arm.

A rather telling dream. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he assures Dean, looking up and seeing a glimpse of Dean's face. But he doesn't push Dean away. He can't bring himself to do it. He turns and Dean shifts with him, and this time the faint light from the hall lands directly on Dean.

It's a handsome face. A familiar face, these days. No longer just a flat picture or a few seconds of grainy security camera footage. Castiel knows what Dean looks like when he's hiding something, when he's putting on a façade, when he's focused entirely on Castiel.

"What?" Dean asks.

Castiel lays down with his back to Dean. Then he grabs Dean's hand and pulls it over his waist. Dean freezes, stiff as a board, then slowly relaxes into Castiel's back.

By the time Dean's relaxed entirely, Castiel has forced himself to sleep.

* * *

Day seventy-two, Dean fails to take as shower before bed. That doesn't actually bother Castiel – Dean generally smells fine after a day of not showering, and usually hasn't for at least that long after one of his one or two day hunts. (Castiel keeps a mental list of dates and details, though of course Dean refuses to let locations slip.) A little stronger than normal, but not unpleasant. He lets Dean curl right up to him as usual, warmth seeping through two layers of clothing.

In the middle of the night he wakes up to feel Dean's erection pressed against his back. Dean thrusts lazily, but he's muttering something Castiel can't make out, so he's still asleep. Castiel's never been so close to another aroused man, and having a man's cock shifting against the small of his back isn't something he ever expected to experience. Not until Dean captured him and used the word 'soulmate,' anyway. And while Dean's insisted on sharing the same bed for a month, he's never attempted to sexually assault Castiel. Not even a kiss, the half-asleep one excepting. Just … hugs. Cuddling.

Castiel is suddenly sweating, panicking. Has he gotten lazy, complacent? He stopped worrying about this when he should have been thinking about it every night.

Thinking about escape every night. Not letting himself get into the rhythm of good food and a warm body to sleep next to.

Dean thrusts again, a warm, hard line against Castiel.

Castiel is frozen on the bed. What should he do? Wake up Dean? Dean would probably just back up and apologize. He inches forward, away from Dean, then quietly slips off their bed. His bed. That Dean shares.

"Hmmf?" Dean asks.

Castiel turns and stands near the bathroom door.

Dean blinks at him, then blinks at his own body. "Oh. Shit. Sorry, Cas." He shifts the sheets around. "I'll, um. Go take care of this. Somewhere else," he adds hastily.

Castiel just nods awkwardly.

Still, when Dean stands, Castiel gets a good look at Dean's cock, outlined by his boxers instead of hidden. When he meets Dean's eyes, Dean is giving him an odd little half-grin, like he's not sure if he should be pleased.

Castiel goes to the bathroom and shuts the door, then slides down the other side of it until his head is on his knees.

Fuck.

* * *

Castiel watches Dean make breakfast, humming a Metallica song as he goes. He breaks eggs one-handed and prefers his toast on the burnt side. He loves a lot of popular culture, but refuses to admit anything past what his father raised him and Sam on. He wants to be happy, and has spent most of his life not attaining that goal. But Castiel makes him happy. Even like this, with Castiel having given him so little.

Dean switches to 'Hey Jude,' glancing at Castiel. "I really am sorry," he says suddenly.

Castiel smiles at him. "I know."

Dean returns to breakfast, looking pleased. It's a familiar sight these days. Castiel has seen Dean in almost variation possible, happy and sad, angry and depressed. Eager to please, easy to please – those most of all, recently, as Castiel has relaxed and let Dean in. He's no longer capable of viewing Dean objectively. He knows this. He has spent too long in the hands of his captor to not empathize, to not care. He knows too much about Dean, and Dean has done too little to earn Castiel's hatred.

He still wants to go home. But when Dean touches him there's something carried along with the fear, a yearning to respond. And he wasn't lying about telling Dean he's not gay, but it's like something in him _recognizes_ Dean.

He's losing his mind. He needs to get out of here.

" – for a few days," Dean finishes.

"Huh?" Castiel asks, having missed most of that.

"I'm going on a hunt, I should be gone no more than two days," Dean says. "You need anything before I go?"

Castiel thinks fast. "There's a book referenced in one you gave me – it's about faerie circles. Can you find it in the library before you leave?"

"Sure," Dean agrees instantly.

Two hours after lunch, Dean brings it to him. It's ridiculously old, this particular copy being almost a hundred years old, and the original much more so than that. Castiel can tell from the spelling that is so different from modern English. It looks like late medieval English. _Everic Cercle_.

He'd actually found reference to it in one of the first books Dean gave him, a mermaid book. But that was back when he still thought magic was pure bullshit.

It's been a long time since he learned Middle English and he wishes Reid were here, but he's able to get through most of it well enough. By the time he's reached a quarter of the way through the book, he still hasn't found what he's looking for. He carefully puts it aside when he hears Dean coming down the hall.

Dean has multiple glass storage containers stacked upon each other. At least one is lasagna, and he sees some salad in there, too. He puts them all in Castiel's mini-fridge. Castiel already has a stack of water bottles and soda, even a beer or two (not that Castiel has ever had any of that). Dean wipes his hands on his pants and gives Castiel a small smile. "Well, I'm taking off."

Castiel nods. An insane part of him wants to say 'Be safe,' but he resists. "I will see you in a few days, then."

Then Dean's gone. Castiel returns to his book and finishes it. There, three hundred pages in, is a spell that a sorcerer used centuries before to escape a faerie circle. He broadened the limits of the binding spell so far that he was able to simply walk out. Once he left the borders, that particular effect of the faerie ring dissipated. Castiel doubts that this spell will do the same, but it won't matter if he can get far enough away. He can figure out a better way to get the cuff off if he's safely away from Dean, in the hands of local law enforcement or the FBI.

The ingredients of the spell aren't horribly hard to come by, but will be somewhat hard to explain to Dean. Sage, rosemary (fresh), an offering (the beer will do) and a piece of quartz for focusing. Intent and talent, too, of course. Castiel doesn't know about talent, but he sure as hell has the intent.

Assuming the spell works, Castiel will need to search the bunker for anything he can use. Even potentially the spell used on the cuff. He'll need appropriate clothing for the weather and weapons. Dean keeps his bedroom door locked even though Castiel has the ankle cuff, so it's possible he keeps other rooms locked while he's gone. But not the library.

When Dean comes back, he's got a list of meals.

Bemused, Dean says, "You want sage as a garnish with your eggs? Okay … Pork roast with rosemary? I can get behind that. What made you think of stuff for me to make?"

Castiel lifts one shoulder. "Boredom."

Three days later, Castiel brings up the focusing crystal. "For meditation," he says. "That's why I need it."

Dean squints at him. "You don't seem like the type to need crystals."

Castiel shrugs casually. "I also didn't think magic existed, but clearly it does. I want to see if it makes a difference. You know I meditate regularly."

"Yeah, sure. I'm sure we've got some in our spell supplies."

And Castiel waits for his opportunity.

* * *

Day ninety-two, Castiel is woken out of a deep sleep by Dean thrashing around. He's whimpering and his legs kick out, hard enough to bruise. Castiel edges away, trying to decide what to do. Waking Dean with a shoulder on the hand might be dangerous – Dean is highly skilled and if he's asleep, he may not take precautions not to hurt Castiel. Not that Castiel is some damsel in distress, but there's confidence and over-confidence. So Castiel slips out of bed, out of reach of those flailing limbs. He goes to the hallway where the room light switch is, and flips it on.

Dean's face is contorted like he's in pain.

"Dean!" Castiel calls. "Dean, wake up." He approaches the bed cautiously, still out of reach, and knocks on the wall. "Dean!"

Dean bolts upright. His eyes are glazed, but they slowly focus on Castiel. "Cas?"

Still cautious, Castiel sits on the bed and places a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You okay?"

Dean grabs Castiel's wrist, not to stop him, but to hold on. "Cas." He closes his eyes and breathes deep. "Oh, fuck. Haven't had one of those in a while. I usually sleep so well with you."

"You want to talk about it?"

Dean shakes his head, looking … looking scared. It's not really an expression Castiel has ever seen. "Come to bed?"

Castiel hesitates and then lays down. Rather than let Castiel hold him – as Castiel expected – Dean curls protectively around him, instead. Dean's head on Castiel's shoulder, his arm around Castiel's back and his right leg slung over Castiel's lower body. He presses his nose into the nape of Castiel's neck and wraps his arms around Castiel. It's not all that different from how they normally sleep, because Dean is a stealth cuddler, but something about how Dean is doing so while awake and in the light gives Castiel pause. If someone saw them like this, they would think they were lovers.

"You have nightmares often?" Castiel asks. "Normally?"

"Without you, yeah. I mean, I always slept better with Sammy in the same room and after hell, I couldn't even spend the night with a girl. Too dangerous. But you – you're fine." Dean exhales, hot against Castiel's skin. "I think I love you, Cas."

Castiel tenses. Does Dean expect him to say the same?

"You don't have to say anything," Dean whispers, voice breaking. "I just … thank you, Cas. For being here. You could be throwing punches left and right, and instead you let me sleep in the same bed, let me hold you."

Castiel doesn't know what to say. Say he cares about Dean, too? It's true, but it's also true he intends on escaping next time Dean leaves on a hunt. Somehow he thinks saying that and then doing that would be very painful for Dean.

Dean shifts, loosening his hold on Castiel. "Cas."

Castiel looks back at him.

And Dean leans in, green eyes intense, and presses his lips against Castiel's. Castiel sees it coming and freezes. Dean's lips are soft and the contact is gentle and warm.

Something in Castiel breaks a little.

Dean withdraws maybe an inch, and Castiel can see all his freckles and the love – insane as it may be – in his eyes. Without thinking about it, Castiel places a hand on Dean's neck and pulls him back in. He kisses Dean, presses _into_ him. Dean lets loose a small sob and responds, licking the seam of Castiel's lips, sucking on his lower lip, withdrawing only to come close again, like he wants to give Castiel a thousand little kisses. The next time Dean tries to lick his way into Castiel's mouth, Castiel lets him. He can feel the unfamiliar stubble on Dean's chin, the power behind how Dean holds him still to deepen the kiss.

As the kiss goes from gentle to hot, Castiel's chest tightens and a weird tension sits low in his stomach. Dean fucks his mouth with his tongue, and he's good at it. He hits every sensitive part of Castiel's mouth in a way Castiel's few lovers never really did.

A hand skims up Castiel's shirt and a thumb strokes his nipple.

Castiel shoves Dean off, saying, "Stop, stop."

"Sorry, sorry," Dean says immediately, backing away, hands held up. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have taken it that far," he says, mouth red and wet.

Castiel heaves several large breaths and wipes his mouth. His hand shakes. He recognizes that tension he was feeling as arousal, as sexual attraction. Whether it's his own or some fucked up response to his situation, he doesn't know.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks.

Reckless and wild, his thoughts spinning out of control and his knowledge of Stockholm Syndrome somehow unimportant, Castiel says, "Kiss me."

Dean is the one to hesitate this time, but when Castiel simply waits for him he leans forward and presses a second gentle kiss to Castiel's mouth. He leans over Castiel, propped up by his hands so his body doesn't touch Castiel's. Castiel breathes into each kiss, each a little harder than the last. He cups Dean's face, running his fingertips over Dean's stubble – the guy he kissed in college is a faint memory and was smooth shaven, so it's a new texture, a new experience. Running his fingers through the short hair at Dean's nape makes Dean shiver and bring his body closer to Castiel's. He can feel Dean's leg, which positioned between his knees, hitch up so his strong thigh presses against Castiel.

Castiel should be panicking, but instead he just lays there and kisses and kisses.

Dean breaks off the kiss and Castiel opens his eyes. He watches as Dean leverages himself off of Castiel, so he's kneeling next to him instead of on top of him. Dean's cock is tenting his boxers and he presses his hand down on top of it, half to hide it from Castiel, half to hold himself in. He stares at Castiel with nearly all pupil eyes, darkly aroused.

"You're not ready for this," Dean says.

"No, I'm not," Castiel responds.

Dean gets off the bed and stumbles to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him and after a minute Castiel hears the shower turn on. It doesn't stop the sound of Dean's loud moan, and Castiel knows precisely what is happening behind that door. Castiel touches himself through his pants, but he's not hard. He still listens as Dean jacks off with short, hitching breaths that lead into a long sigh.

Castiel is losing his mind.

He leans over the side of the bed and throws up. There's not much there except bile, because he ate more than seven hours ago. He stares at it, still feeling sick. He covers his face when the shower turns off and Dean quietly opens the bathroom door. "I'm sorry," he says before Dean can say anything.

"Don't worry about it," Dean says equally quietly. "I'll clean it up."

"I can do it," Castiel says, feeling like he should clean up his own mess. His own stupidity. What the hell was he thinking? It's only been three months, why does it feel like a year? How could he have let himself fall to manipulation in only three months?

"Cas."

When no other words are forthcoming, Castiel finally looks at him.

"It's okay. Really. Just rest, okay?"

Dean returns five minutes later with cleaning supplies and gets the job done quickly. Castiel just watches him do it, numb. When Dean leaves with the soiled washcloths Castiel gets up and goes to the bathroom, stopping before the sink so he can stare into the mirror.

He looks ragged. His hair is past regulation length now and has started to curl a little at the ends. Although he has dark lines under his eyes, the rest of him looks healthy. He has muscle and a decent amount of fat on his bones. He's slightly lighter than he was at the FBI, but not by much – most of that weight-loss stress induced, because Dean feeds him well.

But his eyes. He looks lost.

As an FBI agent who has dealt with cases of abduction, even long-term imprisonment, he knows that the relationship a prisoner can have with his captor is complicated. But, although many of those criminals had issues that led to the crime, none of them were like Dean. Because for all of Dean's insane thinking, he's not wrong when it comes to the nature of the world. At least partially, if not totally. The expected impatience and consequent violence has never happened. He's a predatory kidnapper, but it's not about power or even primarily sexual satisfaction (though today proved it to definitely be an element). It's about a specific goal. Dean wants to make Castiel into a partner.

The life Dean has lived, if what he says is true, has led him to this point – but that life was one of sacrifice. Dean is not mentally well, but neither is he entirely insane. Even his motives may be based on fact.

Or is all that a lie, a comfort Castiel tells himself to justify allowing his kidnapper to initiate the beginnings of a sexual relationship?

He could have said no. He did say no, and Dean listened. Then he said yes.

"You a fucking fool," Castiel tells his reflection. You need to escape, he adds silently.

Footfalls warn Castiel that Dean has returned. "Cas?"

"In here," Castiel says automatically.

Dean rounds the corner. "You want to go back to sleep?"

Castiel shrugs. He doesn't know.

Dean pauses and picks up a corner of the blanket, pulling at a thread. "Seriously, Cas. Do you want to talk?"

"I think talking about my imprisonment with my captor is counter-productive."

Dean just frowns at him. "I know this isn't easy for you. I can help with that, at least." He throws up his hands. "Or yell at me. Scream in my face and tell me how you hate me. Look, I bottle things up. I always have. It worked for a long time, but then I'd break down. That's where you're heading, and I don't want to see that happen. Cas, I don't want you to suffer."

Castiel looks at him incredulously. "Then let me go!"

Dean's face falls. "Anything but that, Cas. Please."

"I hate you," Cas whispers, but it's not true.

"Good," Dean says loudly. "Let it out. Come on, Cas. You –"

"Fuck off, Dean," Castiel snarls. "You're not a therapist. I don't care what your reasoning is, you're the one inflicting this on me."

Dean finally gets his hackles up. "You asked me to kiss you."

"I'm asking you to let me go," Castiel snaps.

Dean takes a deep breath. "I can't do that. You know that."

"You can, you simply refuse to."

Dean folds his arms. "All right, fine. I'm not a therapist. I've taken you prisoner. But Cas, I love you. You're my soulmate. Doesn't that count for something?"

Maybe it does. And that scares the hell out of him. "I don't want to talk about this."

Dean sighs, long and deep. "All right. Come to bed, then? I won't touch you."

Castiel follows him to the bed, gets in on his side. Dean takes the other and keeps to it, not curling up to Castiel or touching him at all. It feels weird, to have Dean here but not to be in physical contact. Castiel supposes that Dean, however much he is not a therapist or a psychologist, knows the power of touch, and he's used it from the beginning. Castiel thought Dean wanted sex by making the deal, but maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe he knew that he had to go slow. That Castiel would get used to physical comfort.

Dean's no idiot. Castiel knows that much. And to escape, he's going to have to outsmart him.

* * *

Three days later, Dean leaves for a two-day hunt. (Castiel curses his freakout after Dean was gone two weeks, because Dean doesn't go on long hunts anymore.) Castiel waits three hours to make sure Dean isn't going to return to grab some random forgotten item, then begins. Castiel grabs his herbs, some of it picked off of meals and some of it clean because Dean used it as a garnish. The mirror has served as good hiding place, something for Castiel to stare at it while hoping this new plan will work. He also has the book, but he's got the spell memorized now.

He burns both the sage and the rosemary, walking in a circle. He feels like an idiot, but tries to put that out of his mind when he does the final component, which is continuing to walk in that circle while chanting the right words and having the right mental intent. According to the book, there should be a rush of air when the spell is functioning. It will last no more than three days.

Nothing happens.

Castiel grabs the book and rereads it. Talent. And intent.

He takes five minutes to meditate, then tries again. And again. Each attempt takes more than an hour. The third time, he tests the barrier in the library, but it's still there. The fourth and fifth fail, and mounting frustration makes Castiel curse at the sky. He blanks his mind again. He puts everything except the spell out of his mind. His hopes and fears are put away.

He walks in a slow circle. He finishes the last word, "Relesen!"

Wind whistles.

Castiel freezes, then bolts for the library. He pauses at the blank point on the floor where the barrier rests, then he steps across it. Fully.

He begins to laugh, wild. He lets loose for almost a full minute and then forces down the slightly hysterical joy. He needs to act quickly and intelligently.

First, he finds heavier clothes and a pair of Dean's boots. The clothes smell like him, and it makes Castiel falter for a second before he's able to refocus. It's been nearly four months, which means it's now January. At night it could get to freezing. Second, he finds a knapsack that he fills with water and sealed food. Then he begins a thorough search of the bunker.

Dean's bedroom is still locked. So is the armory and dungeon, and several random rooms in the hall. He doesn't find any keys. Sam's room is unlocked, but largely empty; Castiel carefully doesn't touch anything and closes the door. There's a garage full of cars from the fifties, but none of them will start. He does find a gun (ironically a Glock Model 22 pistol) loaded, hidden near the front door. (He doesn't go out yet. His heart is racing.) He grabs a kitchen knife as a secondary weapon. He searches the library and finds a locked cage which contains boxes with labels like _Cursed Object #72_. He doesn't find anything regarding the ankle cuff anywhere, not in the obvious spots (like on one of the two major desks) or in any of the stacks. After an hour, he concludes that he probably isn't going to find it in any kind of reasonable length of time. There's an old phone, disconnected. No random cells lying around.

He finds mail in the foyer. It doesn't have a real address listed, but it does have a PO box and state.

Kansas. He's in Kansas. Dean Winchester's birth state.

Possibly near Witchita, the location of the PO box, but it's also possible Dean just chose the highest population city for that. Possibly near Lawrence, his home town.

Castiel will have to hike out, if Dean was telling the truth about being in the middle of nowhere. He approaches the front door, each step closer making him queasier. He wants to throw up from sheer nervousness. A wild thought passes through his head that Dean is waiting on the other side of that door, ready to take him down. That this is all a test.

Fuck that.

Castiel opens the door and sees a road. It doesn't have any painted lines on it, so it's either small or a country road. Or private. The air is cool and there's a breeze, the first Castiel has felt for months. He can't help but stop and take several deep breaths of the clean air. Then he walks out entirely, looking behind him. Like he suspected, the entrance is just at ground level, and most of the bunker is underground. There's a building set above the entrance, but Castiel doesn't know what it is. Perhaps where the generator is stored – judging from the size of the bunker, it probably has its own well, generator, and whatever else they would need to keep off any official paperwork.

Beyond that lies nothing but yellowing grass and brush. Miles and miles of it.

Castiel is dizzy. The grass swims and he has to close his eyes, and his heart wants to beat out of his chest. He swallows past a dry throat. The sun is blinding, even with his eyes shut. Now is not the time to get agoraphobic. He forces even breaths and then opens his eyes. He doesn't want to walk along the road, even though that's probably the best way to get noticed. He wants to get farther away before he does that, because some part of him fears that Dean is on his way back, for some reason. It could be anything. Dean's come home early from hunts before.

Home.

Castiel puts the knapsack over his shoulder and begins to run not quite parallel to the road. He sprints at first on instinct, then stops himself and goes at a steady jog instead. He needs to pace himself. He drinks plenty of water, knowing he can't afford to stop to find any for at least for the first day and that he needs to go a long distance.

The fear and worry fade as physical movement takes over. Before Dean, he went on regular runs, both for the physical exercise and to clear his mind. At midday, he slows to a walk. The street is about two hundred yards to his left, so he's out of sight from the road. He hasn't heard any cars or trucks come by, so it's probably not a well-traveled road and he's safer here, where Dean can't see him. When he gets to a major road, then he'll start asking for help.

Night comes before a crossroads.

Dean's heavy jacket, oppressive during the day, becomes warm and comfortable as the temperature drops. Castiel keeps up his pace, knowing he needs to keep his blood flowing. The sliver of a moon is enough that he can avoid major obstacles, though the ground itself is too dark to see. He might have to stop and sleep for a few hours, but he's hoping that around the next gentle hill will be a highway.

He hears a car on the road. Deep, loud – a muscle car with a powerful engine. Dean drives a 67 Impala. Castiel slowly kneels on the ground, listening as the car slows. Then stops. The engine dies.

What if the ankle cuff has some kind of magical tracking device?

Castiel bolts.

He's far enough from the road that Dean shouldn't be able to hear him running as long as he's fairly careful, so he runs at close to full speed in the opposite direction of the car noise. When he's out of breath, he pauses and takes out the Glock he'd found. Adrenaline is making everything sharp and clear, and his hand doesn't shake.

Is he willing to kill Dean, if that is what it takes to escape?

He takes the safety off and keeps running. He only stops when he hears the sound of someone else moving through the brush. FBI training says to identify himself so he doesn't shoot an innocent bystander, but logic says there's no way an innocent bystander followed him out here. He has to resist the urge to shoot in the general direction of the noise.

It becomes quiet.

It reminds him of Dwight Hiller case, where he chased the suspect into a forest and was on his heels for nearly fifteen minutes before the serial killer went to ground. Him and Hotch spent the next half hour searching the surrounding area before they found him. Back when he was the hunter.

Castiel very much feels like prey right now. He scans the area around him, eyes alert to every sway of grass.

Then there's a crunch right behind him, and a hand closes on his wrist. Castiel twists and aims and he sees the flash of green eyes and –

He doesn't fire.

Dean is on him the next second, breaking his hold on the Glock with enough force to almost snap bone. Then he's lunging over his body, trying to push Castiel to the ground. If Dean can get him there, Castiel knows he's lost the fight. Dean is heavier and stronger than he is, and being on the ground would give him too great an advantage. Castiel twists to the side, breaking Dean's hold and struggling to his feet. Rather than stay on the defensive, he goes on the attack, trying desperately to disable Dean. But in a matter of seconds Dean reacts and uses his slightly greater reach to knock away Castiel's arms, and Castiel takes a very hard blow to the chin. Dean is close enough that Castiel tries to kick and trip him up, anything to put Dean back on the defensive, but Dean is quick as lightning and won't give an inch. They trade blows, hurting each other, but Castiel can't seem to gain an advantage.

This is going to end up the way their last fight did, Castiel realizes. He doesn't know where the gun went, but he knows where the kitchen knife is.

He drops to the ground and goes for it. Fingers fumble around the handle, and then Dean is forcing him to the ground with his greater weight. Castiel slashes blindly, and Dean shouts in pain.

"Fuck, fuck – Cas, stop!"

Castiel scrambles away, but Dean, despite being injured, follows closely and doesn't let him get up. Castiel goes to slash again, but Dean dodges and does something Castiel can't see in the dark, some move Castiel doesn't expect, and they crash into each other.

Pain flashes and Castiel cries out. It seizes through his body and he feels himself go limp in shock.

"Cas?" Dean is fumbling around his wrists, and Castiel feels the familiar cold, hard line of a handcuff.

"My stomach," Castiel says. "The knife." And he breathes raggedly. Why does he lose every single time he goes against Dean in a fight? He has a ludicrous thought that he should insist they spar, so Castiel can beat his ass next time. Or he should have fired, like he was trained. He's an FBI agent and he _failed to fire._

"Fuck," Dean whispers. "Okay, I'm going to pick you up and get you to the car, there's light and bandages. Don't struggle, okay? Don't move."

Dean gets an arm under Castiel's, across his back, and then his other under Castiel's leg. A bridal carry. Dean stands, pulling Castiel close, and Castiel breathes into Dean's shirt, his right hand on his stomach. He can feel the bleed flowing from the wound. It's deep. The world wavers as Dean walks through the rough ground, moving as quickly as possible. Castiel relaxes, almost against his will, feeling like he's a child that's being rocked to sleep.

Reality returns when Dean settles him against a car. The car, Dean's Impala. The movement jars his injury and he groans. Dean opens the car door and sets up a flashlight on the ground before pushing Castiel's bloody hands away and taking a look at the knife wound. "Okay, it's deep but it didn't hit anything major. Stay here." Dean gets up, leaves, and then returns with a blanket. "Press that on it. Hard as you can."

Castiel obeys.

Dean slips an arm under Castiel's so he can heave him up and into the waiting backseat.

Castiel closes his eyes.

"Cas, you need to stay awake," Dean orders from the front seat, and then everything begins to gently sway.

"I want to go home," Castiel tells him.

Dean is quiet for almost five minutes. Then, soft, "You are home."

Time passes in stops and starts, while Castiel contemplates his failure to obey his training. Really, his failure to remain unaffected by Dean. He got involved. Emotional. Hotchner would be disappointed. Understanding, but definitely disappointed.

He lets Dean bridal carry him back into the bunker. Which he knows now is really a bunker. Dean carries him into his room and handcuffs him to the headboard again. Castiel catches a flash of his pale face before he leaves for the infirmary. He returns in probably less than a minute, clearly running, with a basket full of hospital grade medical supplies.

"Can I pass out now?" Castiel asks.

Dean looks up from Castiel's wound, expression grim. "Go ahead."

Castiel does.

* * *

Castiel wakes up naked.

He has the uncomfortable sensation of air on skin first and shivers. Then the rest of his mind kicks online and he realizes he's only covered by a towel, which is laid over his genitals. When he opens his eyes, he realizes that he's still on his bed in his room, unbound this time. The knife wound hurts, but probably not as much as it should, and most of the pain feels internal, like his skin has been numbed. A bandage covers it, so Castiel can't see the damage done. He pokes at it, but it's securely taped.

"How do you feel?" Dean's voice comes out of nowhere.

No, not nowhere. Dean is sitting on a chair Castiel has never seen, pulled up to the bed. He's got a book in hand, something with an unintelligible title. He's got little smears of blood on his face and hands, as well as a few bruises and cuts that Castiel gave him in their short fight. His expression is blank as he stares down at Castiel.

How does he feel? Castiel doesn't even want to answer. Exhausted. Depressed.

"Well, I can tell you how I feel, which is pretty fucking pissed."

Castiel sighs.

"I thought we made a deal for no more violence," Dean snaps. "Or do you not keep your word?"

"I didn't attack you," Castiel replies shortly. "I defended myself."

"Oh yeah? You aimed a gun at my head! Did you forget that part?"

Partially. "I didn't fire." He stares at Dean. "I didn't fucking pull the trigger, and I should have."

Dean throws the book to the floor and stands. He looms over Castiel, then leans over to place a hand on either side of Castiel's head.

Castiel raises both hands to keep him away, suddenly frightened that he's pushed Dean too far.

Dean flinches as if that were a slap. He stands straight and then carefully takes one of Castiel's hands, clearly telegraphing his movements. Castiel lets him, as curious as he is afraid. But all Dean does is sit down, holding one of Castiel's hands in both of his, staring down at them with a deeply conflicted look on his face.

"Dean, where do you honestly see this ending?" Castiel asks.

Dean very slowly looks up, green eyes dark. "You staying here. You wanting to stay here, with me. Even if we never kiss again, if you would just –"

Castiel waits, but Dean doesn't finish.

"Is this about making out?" Dean asks finally. "Is that why you ran?"

"Dean, I ran because you're holding me against my will. You're holding me prisoner. And no matter how much I like you, that fact isn't going away. Not until this magical ankle cuff goes."

"If I took it off," Dean says lowly, "you would run. You would escape." He suddenly laughs a little. "I found your spell. Damn clever, you know that? I never thought you'd find that kind of thing in that book, much less figure out how to get the ingredients and do it. I can see why the FBI wanted you."

Castiel decides to go with the slight change in topic. "How did you find me? How did you even know I was gone?"

Dean digs into his pocket and waves a smart phone. "Motion sensors linked to a silent alarm system. Not so much aimed at you as keeping you safe. I wanted to know if anyone got in. As soon as one was tripped, I turned around."

"I'm in danger? I thought you said no one knew about this place?" Castiel asks.

"They don't. As far as I know. But I do have some enemies – king of hell, alphas. That kind of thing. Of course there's protections all over the place, and this is one of the most secure in the entire bunker, so you don't need to worry. Even if some bad guys found it, they wouldn't get in, or get very far."

"But I was out in the brush, how did you find me? Does the ankle cuff track me?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, it does. I reset the thing while you were out."

Well. That answers that. The vague sense of pressure to continue his escape fades, as does some tension. He's still a prisoner, but at least it's familiar. And somewhere deep inside, in a place Castiel doesn't really want to admit exists, there's relief. He rubs his eyes, feeling exhausted despite the fact he's technically had some rest.

"Do you want a blanket?" Dean asks. "I kept you uncovered until you woke up just to keep an eye on the bleeding, and the other ones that were on the bed are in the wash."

Castiel nods. "Yes. Thank you."

Dean stands, then remains there awkwardly before adding, "Sorry about your clothes. There was so much blood, I didn't know if you were injured anywhere else, so I had to cut it all off. I wasn't sneaking a peek."

Castiel pauses, keeping his expression open. "Did you want to?"

Dean first looks wary, before blushing. Then he smirks. "You're an extremely attractive man, Castiel Novak. I'll be right back." He returns five minutes later with a fluffy blanket, which he carefully settles around Castiel. "Do you want to sleep? I was going to sleep in my own bed tonight, I don't want to roll over on you or something and open your stitches."

"Yes, I'd like to rest."

Dean stands there a moment longer, shifting on his feet. "We'll talk about the escape attempt tomorrow," he says. "Sleep well."

To his surprise, Castiel does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings (spoilers!)** : Dubious consent to sex, edging into non-consensual. Scene has been edited down somewhat, the originals are on ao3 and my lj.

* * *

Castiel wakes up with the need to piss. He knows he's going to need help to get to the bathroom without causing damage to his injury, but he's still naked under the towel and blankets. It's not like Dean hasn't seen it by now, but it still makes Castiel uncomfortable. Unlike the other times he was injured and then ended up in a hospital, Dean isn't a professional, and his interest in Castiel's body _is_ sexual.

Is that something he could use? Castiel blinks at the ceiling, realizing that it is. If Castiel is willing to … to …

"Rise and shine," Dean says, walking into the room. "Bathroom?"

Castiel nods stiffly.

"Don't worry, I used to do this for Sam all the time," Dean says, opening the bathroom door and lifting the toilet seat. "He used to do it for me, too, for that matter. Just think of me as a hot nurse."

Castiel can't help cracking a smile.

It makes Dean beam in response. He pulls back Castiel's blankets, but leaves the towel in place. Pain radiates from the stomach wound, which three or so inches above his left hipbone. It's wide, almost four inches, but Castiel is willing to trust Dean when he says it didn't hit any internal organs. Dean frowns down at him before taking off and then returning with a safety pin, which he uses to pin the fairly large towel around Castiel's hips. Then he pulls Castiel's arm over his shoulders and lifts.

Once he gets Castiel situated, he leaves for almost ten minutes to allow Castiel privacy. Then he carries most of Castiel's weight back to the bed.

Then he leaves again to make breakfast. Castiel is alone with his thoughts. That thought.

He could offer Dean a deal – sex for his freedom. Some kind of pre-determined time that Castiel would allow and participate in sexual acts in return for being released. _If_ Dean agreed to it, Castiel believes it's fairly likely he would follow through.

Is he willing to go that far? To go home?

Many kidnapping victims have suffered much worse than he has. Castiel knows that for a fact. Dean treats him well, considering he is Dean's prisoner and considering Dean's ultimate goal. He's not being tortured. Rape is off the table, even if some forms of sexual contact are not. His life isn't threatened. But he also knows that Dean is willing to make this captivity long-term. Years. Maybe even decades. And Castiel no longer trusts in his ability to escape – Dean has both a remote location and magic at his disposal. Convincing Dean to let him go seems unlikely at best. Whether his claim that they are soulmates is true or not, Dean is convinced it is, and considering his history he's going to stick to that to the death.

He wants Balthazar. He wants the freedom to go where he pleases. He wants to see his colleagues and friends. He wants to go back to his job at the FBI and catch criminals. He may have been single and with few friends, but he was happy and fulfilled.

He would be more or less prostituting himself. Sex. With Dean. A man. It's not really the male part that bothers him – Castiel has never really been attracted to men, but it's not like the idea inherently disgusts him. He doesn't feel attraction until he cares for someone anyway.

It's rendering himself that vulnerable willingly, to satisfy someone else, to buy something for himself.

Dean returns cheerful and with waffles stuffed with jam and cream cheese, meant to be eaten like a sandwich – presumably to be easier on Castiel's injury.

He waits until Castiel is half-done before saying, a bit of anger returning to his tone, "So, about yesterday."

Castiel sits his waffle/sandwich down. "How about we make a deal?"

Dean blinks, clearly taken aback. "What kind of deal?"

Biting down the urge to throw up, Castiel says evenly, "I will willingly have sex with you, and in ret urn you let me go."

Dean gapes at him. "I – what? Are you serious?"

"Yes."

Dean grits his teeth. "No. Eat your breakfast."

But Castiel isn't going to be dismissed that easily. "It's what you really want from me, Dean. You could take it by force, but I know you don't want to do that. I'm offering you a way to get what you want, and I get what I want."

"No, Cas. I said no. No way is that ever happening."

Feeling the opportunity slip out of his fingers, Castiel asks, "Why?"

"I'm not going to rape you!"

"It wouldn't be rape, Dean. I'd be consenting."

Dean's mouth opens and closes. "You telling me the law would see it that way? That I wouldn't be charged with rape if I ever got caught?"

Castiel looks away.

"And what about you? Are you saying you wouldn't feel raped?" Dean presses.

"That's rich coming from you! You want me to choose to be with you – to be your lover, partner in crime, whatever – while I'm _chained up_." Castiel splutters for a second, then continues, "Do you think I'm ever going to be able to make that decision without it being coerced?"

Jaw clenching, Dean gets up and stalks out of the room.

Castiel sets the sandwich to the side, appetite gone and a headache mounting. He rubs his temples, fear and frustration warring with each other. He tries to think logically, try to decide what to do next. If Dean is so opposed to Castiel having sex with him for that reason, that suggests that if Castiel refuses to rescind the offer, Dean may stay away from him. In that way. It's not what Castiel planned, but it should work. And considering Castiel asked Dean to kiss him, considering Castiel even enjoyed it, that's probably for the best.

When Dean returns an hour later, expression blank as he grabs Castiel's plate, all Castiel says is, "The offer stands."

Dean glares at him and goes.

* * *

The bad mood lasts three days. For once, Castiel is the one who gives Dean space to think and process. Dean keeps up the meals (Castiel's leash is set at about the same distance into the kitchen as before; he lost access entirely to the library), but offers very little conversation with them. Although there is a lot of staring. It's like he's trying to figure out a way to defeat Castiel's last words, and can't.

The third night, Dean enters the room and asks, "Can I sleep in here?"

Castiel looks over at him, sees the bags under Dean's eyes and the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Castiel will still hold to his end of their one deal. "All right."

Dean is cautious when he crawls into bed. Castiel's been sleeping on his back for obvious reasons, so Dean only slides a leg against his, his hands in front of him not quite touching Castiel's arm. Then, Dean says quietly, "I can make you happy. I can give you whatever you want."

"Dean …"

"What is there that I can't offer you?" Dean demands.

"Freedom," Castiel states flatly.

"Cas –"

"My home. My apartment. My relationship with my family. My job at the FBI. Can you give me those things, Dean? Here? Because the way I see it, you can only give me those things by letting me go."

Dean looks miserable, lips pursed.

Castiel tries to shove down the impulse to feel sorry for him. "Go to sleep, Dean."

* * *

"Cas! Come to the kitchen!" Dean's voice echoes from the hall.

Castiel puts down his book (a brand new thriller from John Grisham, because Dean isn't stupid) and carefully leverages himself off the bed. It's been a week and he's healing fast with no signs of infection, but he still has to be cautious in how he moves. Going down the hall is easy, up the stairs a bit harder. He finds Dean standing in the middle of the kitchen, phone in hand. Which is unusual; he usually keeps his phone out of reach of Castiel at all times, for obvious reasons.

"I got a text from Anna, she'll be by any minute now," Dean says, smiling.

A woman pops out of thin air.

Castiel starts backwards, pain flaring. "What the –"

"Cas," Dean says as if this is perfectly normal, "this is Anna."

She gives Dean a fond smile, then turns her attention to Castiel, who is still trying to process the fact that she simply appeared out of nowhere. Not near a door. Or a window. Behind a table, even. She tilts her head, blinking thoughtfully at him. She looks young, no more than mid-twenties, with red hair past her shoulders. Her clothing is normal, too – just a pair of jeans and a simple shirt, with a colored denim jacket on top. She doesn't really look like an angel, just a pretty young woman.

"Hello, Castiel. It's good to finally meet you," she says. She steps forward and places two fingers to his forehead, not reacting to his instinctive flinch. "That's better."

The pain from the knife wound is gone. Castiel lifts up his shirt and peels back the gauze and finds nothing but smooth, perfectly normal skin. He's shocked almost speechless. "How did you do that?"

"Healing is an innate ability for angels. Only demons require power in the form of a deal."

Castiel stares at her. "Are you really an angel?"

As if in response, all the lights flicker. One explodes into sparks. Castiel starts again, but then two absolutely massive shadows appear on the walls behind Anna, lit by the flickering lights. Wings, in a high display posture, or like a bird in flight. A faint blue light glows in her eyes. All the hairs on Castiel's arms stand up and he feels a chill work down his spine. He knows, he just knows that what he's looking at isn't human.

Then the lights come back on and the shadows fade into the light.

Castiel stares at Anna the angel, mouth open.

Dean saunters over and leans in. "That was my recommendation. Much more convincing than getting annoyed and arguing about it like Anna did when we first met."

Anna eyes him, visibly amused. "I should have known you'd be so much trouble."

Castiel's knowledge of angels – real ones, anyway – is limited to what Dean has told him. For the most part it's not good news, with a majority of angels either being ambivalent or hostile to humanity. Anna is the exception, the angel who rebelled with him to stop the apocalypse. Castiel should probably be trying to convince her that rescuing him is the right thing to do, but he can't wrap his brain around the fact that angels are real. That the apocalypse happened and was stopped by two young men from Kansas. Because if she … then he …

There is one truth: either he is mad, or Dean is not.

"Give him a sec," Dean advises Anna. "He knows the story, pretty much, but now he knows it's true. How goes it in heaven?"

"Better. Hannah has been a huge help. Metatron is being held where Gadreel once was, while we decide what to do with him."

"Does God exist?" Castiel blurts.

Both Anna and Dean look at him.

"Yeah," Dean says. "He does. Somewhere."

"He has not been present for some time," Anna says delicately. "But I assure you He does exist."

Castiel sits at the table Dean set up for him and Castiel to eat every morning. And processes. So. The devil and the archangel Michael are in hell together. Raphael is dead. (Dean was a bit hazy on how.) Gabriel was Loki for millennia. Demons exist, and not just in the fevered imaginations of visionary killers. Some of the people Castiel has put in prison claimed to be possessed – how many actually were? His mind is tipping, sliding fast into the idea that all that Dean is claimed is true.

"So who's Gadreel? He was in prison?" Dean asks Anna. "That doesn't sound good."

Anna frowns. "We are … reevaluating cases like his. So much has happened in heaven that forgiveness is going to have to be a long-term goal." She dips her head. "So far, he has been cooperative and has acted in good faith."

Dean stares at the floor. "And Sam?"

"Mending his relationship with your father."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, that'll take the rest of eternity."

Castiel needs to get out of here. Though if he did, could he ever go back to life as it was, knowing what he knows now? But – but he has to try. Escape has been his one constant besides Dean. "Anna –"

"I think it is time for us to speak, Castiel," Anna says, interrupting him. She takes four steps to his side and taps his forehead.

They now stand in a field with dying grass that pokes at Castiel's bare feet. The sky is a bright blue, and the air cool. Castiel has no idea where they are, or why. Or how. Did they fly? Do angels even fly? Dean said they teleported. Where is he? How did he get here? Holy fuck, Dean was telling the truth, wasn't he? He is so fucked. He needs to get out of here. So he stares at Anna and tries to get back on track. "Listen to me. I'm an FBI agent who has been kidnapped –"

Anna waves a hand in dismissal. "Human laws are of no concern to me. I owe several large debts to Dean, just as he owes me. You are less in the face of that." Her expression softens. "I am not without sympathy for your situation. But you are with your soulmate. A cupid would have arranged a gentler meeting, but with Dean is not a bad place for you to be, Castiel Novak."

"How about moral law?" Castiel asks. "That would seem to be in the purview of an angel."

Anna smiles. "You're smart. A good match for Dean."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I have removed myself from that equation. And I know Dean. He won't hurt you."

Castiel stares at her for a second. "He's beaten me hard enough to leave cuts and bruises. He slammed my head into the floor hard enough to daze me. You don't think that's hurting me?"

"Why did he commit such acts?" Anna asks.

"I tried to escape and go back to my family," Castiel replies, choosing his words carefully.

Anna searches his face. "I owe him. I will not help you escape."

"Some angel you are, then," Castiel says, unable to repress his anger and frustration.

Anna actually winces. "You would not be the first to say so. But if were it not for Dean, I would still be, in his words, heartless. If Dean ever does put you in real danger, pray to me and I will help you. But I cannot promise more than that."

Castiel turns away and resists the urge to scream at the blue sky – how long has it been? – but only does so just long enough to regain control, and then he returns his attention to Anna. "Where are we?"

Anna gives him a gentle look. "You asked for proof. Dean asked for understanding. This is both." She walks a few feet and then pauses. "Come."

Fortunately, Castiel grew up mostly barefoot, so his feet survive the hundred yard or so trip. They're in a cemetery, and in the distance Castiel sees several men and the Impala. And Dean. Anna stands there as well, along with an older man Castiel doesn't recognize.

He watches as Anna throws a Molotov cocktail at the blond man, shouting, "Hey, asshole!" He then disappears with a scream, and then Sam turns.

But that isn't Sam, because Castiel knows this story.

He lurches forward, but Anna, slight as she is, merely has to hold his arm. "This has already happened. I am only showing you the past, we cannot change it."

Castiel watches, breathless with shock, as Anna is killed. As the older man is killed. Bobby Singer, perhaps, someone Dean's spoken of as a foster father. He watches as Lucifer – and it really must be Lucifer, because everything Dean has told him is true – beats the shit out of Dean, who just keeps saying, "It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you." He's waiting to die with his brother, and Castiel, who has known Dean for five months, sees that he's okay with that. As long as he's with Sam.

His throat tightens when Sam takes control. When Michael returns, and Sam pulls two archangels into the pit – a doorway to hell that Castiel has seen with his own two eyes. Even though he knows Sam's soul eventually escaped, seeing the reality of someone going to hell is shocking. Dean is left alone. And he is alone, even after watching Anna come back to life, and then Bobby with her. The look of utter devastation on Dean's face is unforgettable.

"Do you see?" Anna asks, quiet.

Castiel turns to her and doesn't know what to say. He can feel the tears building, but he doesn't let them fall. Dean's pain is suddenly considerably more real to him.

Anna taps his forehead again. This time he arrives in the bunker, but in a spot he's not normally allowed – Sam's room. Sam is sitting on the bed, looking haggard. Ill. Castiel has seen healthier looking cancer patients. Castiel stares at him, feeling like he could walk over there and tap Sam on the shoulder and have a conversation. Anna places a small hand on his shoulder, like steel. "This is the past," Anna tells him again and Castiel nods slightly. He waits.

Dean wanders in from the hallway and takes a chair. "Sam," he says. Just that.

Sam looks up, exhausted and pained. "Dean, I have to do this. We've had this discussion a million times and I –"

"I know, Sam," Dean interrupts. "Fuck." He rubs his face, then looks up at Sam with tears shining in his eyes. "I just came to here to say. That. For what it's worth, you have my blessing."

Sam smiles, slow and heartbreaking. There's a softness and sincerity to it that Castiel has rarely seen and a profoundly deep love in his eyes. "I can finish the last trial and cure Crowley. Close hell, Dean. Think of how many lives we'll save."

"But I'm going with you," Dean finishes.

The smile falls from Sam's face. "Dean, you can have a life, a good life –"

"And you can't?" Dean demands. "You think living is worth anything to me without you? You think I won't put a bullet in my brain two seconds after you go?"

Sam stares at him, a line between his eyebrows. "Talk to Anna."

Dean huffs out a surprised laugh. "What? Why?"

"Please. For me. The rest can wait until then."

Dean tries to stare him down, but Sam just gives Dean a calm and steady gaze in response. Almost a full minute of pure silence passes before Dean gets up, slow and painful, and then he nods. "Okay, Sam," he says quietly and goes.

Sam lies down on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he takes even breaths.

"Dean asked me to come, and then asked what would happen to him and Sam when they die. If they would share a heaven," Anna says. Sam, of course, doesn't react, just lies there resting. Castiel can't even move, frozen to the spot with a torrent of emotions that he can't suppress. "That's when I told him about you. I didn't know then that Sam had planned that conversation, but Sam knew that Jessica was his soulmate along with Dean – I had that talk with him long ago – so he suspected Dean had one as well. Sam, in a way, always planned for Dean to know you. Whether he anticipated the lengths Dean would go to I can't say, but you were his last hope for keeping his brother alive."

Castiel wipes his eyes. Had he been there for Michael's last moments, would his brother's dying wish been any less powerful? Of course Castiel wouldn't have kidnapped Dean, but Dean doesn't have the advantage of a normal life.

Finally, Castiel says, "Is everything Dean told me true?"

"About his history? Yes." Anna tilts her head. "His emotions, probably not."

Castiel laughs despite himself.

"Do you understand?" Anna asks.

"Yes." Castiel looks at Sam, still breathing evenly on the bed, fast looking like he's going to drop off into sleep. "Yes, I think I do."

With another tap to his forehead, Anna returns them both to the present-time bunker. Dean is sitting at their breakfast table and he looks up with the rush of air that sends a few random pieces of paper (with recipes on them, mostly) scattering. "That wasn't long," Dean observes, rising to his feet.

He looks like Dean that Castiel knows well. Older than the one he saw in the past, more character to his handsome face. As always, he looks at Castiel with a mixture of love and caution. And deep inside that is something else – a pinprick of something not quite sane. Sam's death broke irrevocably broke part of Dean, and the rest of Dean's mind is centered around that moment, that act of sacrifice. But Dean still is _Dean_ – a good man who fought too many hard battles, and is now fighting his last one, a battle to survive, and his weapons are a desperate series of actions.

Castiel steps forward and embraces him.

Dean freezes for a second before returning the hug, wrapping his strong arms around Castiel and holding on tight. "Hey," he whispers into Castiel's shoulder.

Throat tight, Castiel can't say anything.

"I will take that as my leave," Anna's voice comes from behind them. "Good luck, both of you." Papers scatter again.

After a minute, Castiel releases Dean.

"Where'd she take you?" Dean asks, keeping a hand on Castiel's waist.

Blue eyes meet green. "Does it matter?"

The corner of Dean's mouth quirks. "Guess not."

"Dean –"

"Yeah?" Dean asks, that caution returning.

"I'm rescinding my offer."

Dean smiles. Because he may not know the details, but he knows as well as Castiel what that means. It's not a fight as much as it is a surrender. An acknowledgement that their relationship isn't going to go that way, whatever happens next. "Okay. Good."

"I'm sorry about Sam," Castiel says. "He seemed like a good man."

A sadness enters Dean's eyes. "He was. And thanks."

"Why is mending his relationship with your father going to take an eternity?"

* * *

Dean laughs.

Castiel has come to an irreversible conclusion: he's not capable of killing Dean. He's not _willing_.

He hasn't told Dean that yet, though. Instead, a hundred and fifty-two days in, their life together reaches another level of steady rhythm. They watch tv shows and movies every night on a massive, comfortable couch in a converted den, sleep in the same bed, and then Dean makes them breakfast in the morning. Dean bought a laptop with no internet access (though Castiel knows the bunker has a satellite connection) for Castiel to use. He plays a lot of Tetris. Dean still talks about Sam, but now Castiel talks about Michael and Balthazar and Hael. In return, Dean shares what it was like growing up as a hunter, and not the sanitized version he gave Castiel before.

One morning after lunch, Dean comes in from one of his supply runs that typically take around four to five hours. Except this time instead of holding groceries, he's holding an absolute mountain of newspapers. Dean plops them onto the kitchen table.

Castiel raises an eyebrow.

"You've learned enough from me and read enough of the library that I think you could find hunts."

Castiel divides the pile into four for easier access. He looks at the array of newspapers from all over the country. "Where did you even get all of these?"

"Bobby set it up," Dean replies. "Back when he was alive, he was kind of hunter central when it came to information. He'd find hunts and call hunters like me and Sam to take care of them if they were out of his area."

"By the time these get here, isn't the information old?"

"I'm looking for long term trends," Dean says. "Dad was a genius at it, Sam was pretty good, and I'm … not that great, honestly. If it's something I've seen before, I recognize it, but if it's just random shit across states? Then I don't see it. But you caught serial killers for a living, if anyone could see long-term stuff, it's you."

Castiel snorts. "I wonder what Bobby could have done with ViCAP."

"Ah ah, don't think he didn't have access. Hunters know hackers too, you know."

Castiel pauses in his examination of the newspapers. "Is that how you got my file? You know things about me that were only in my FBI file."

Dean shrugs uncomfortably. "Yeah, I know someone. She didn't exactly know why I was asking for it, though."

That suggests that Anna may be the exception in terms of accepting Dean's kidnapping of Castiel. After Anna had dismissed it so easily Castiel had come to the conclusion that even if other hunters didn't agree with Dean's actions, they wouldn't do anything about it. Especially since Castiel was FBI, and law enforcement is a complication at best for hunters, at worst an enemy. But perhaps that was a rather narrow view of the group of people that know about the supernatural.

"So, you think you're up for it?" Dean asks, eyes brightly hopeful.

"Well, it gives me something to do," Castiel says with a smile.

In the end, Dean gets Castiel a larger table set up in one of the rooms that Castiel is allowed access to. More than nine feet long and four feet wide, it lets Castiel spread out the newspapers, all of which are about a week to three weeks old. He decides not to dismiss solved crimes, since those could also have supernatural elements that the local law enforcement missed. After that, he uses a board on the wall to pin things up. He finds two potential hunts in the first five days, both of them a series of weird killings that span across state lines.

The sixth day, he finds himself.

It's a small article from Stafford, Virginia (near Quantico), saying that FBI agent Castiel Novak, a member of the BAU, has been missing for nearly six months. He's believed to be a victim of a kidnapping deliberately aimed at a member of law enforcement. It doesn't mention Dean or any suspects, just that the investigation is ongoing. It's pretty factual, save for a quote from Balthazar Novak, saying, "My brother is still alive and waiting for us to find him. He's a fighter. Please, if anyone knows anything, help my brother come home to his family."

It kicks the breath out of Castiel. When he inhales, it's with tears blurring his vision. He wipes his eyes, but everything blurs again almost instantly. He traces Balthazar's words, the first words from his brother that he's heard in six months.

Then he pushes away the newspaper and sobs into his hands. For the first time, he breaks down, taking short and fast breaths as his body jerks with the force of his crying. He doesn't know how long it lasts, just that by the end of it he's exhausted.

With numbness creeping throughout his entire body, he gets to his feet and walks to his room, then lays down and pulls the cover over him. And he doesn't move.

Dean comes in at some point, resting a hand on Castiel's forehead. "Cas? You okay, Cas? You don't have a fever, are you sick?"

Castiel doesn't respond.

"Cas, what's wrong?"

Silence.

A hand stroking Castiel's hair. "Okay," Dean says at last. "I'll be back in a bit with dinner." He leaves, time passes, and then he returns. "I found the article," Dean says quietly. "I'm sorry, Cas."

He leaves Castiel alone for the night.

* * *

Castiel can't muster the appetite to eat breakfast, even though Dean made his favorite (scrambled eggs with salsa and sour cream). He stares down at the full plate for nearly fifteen minutes before Dean silently takes it away and replaces it with a cup of water.

"Drink," Dean says, standing over him. "Cas, you have to drink water. I'll let food slide for now, but you need water."

Castiel drinks half of it mechanically.

"Okay, good." Dean sounds relieved. "You want me to put on a movie? Something so stupid and inaccurate it's laughable? I've got _Mission Impossible_. The entire series of movies, if you want. Just tell me what you need, Cas."

Castiel closes his eyes and rests his head on his arms, blocking Dean out as much as he's able.

"Gotcha," Dean mutters, and leaves the kitchen.

A buzz distracts Castiel from his depression. After a second, it repeats. Confused, Castiel raises his head and looks around the kitchen. There, lying on the counter, is Dean's cell phone. The phone is set to vibrate and someone is calling. Technically, it's just outside of Castiel's reach because he can't reach any of the counters or the appliances. But it's so close. After a minute of Castiel staring it, it goes still and then beeps once. Someone left a voicemail.

He rises to his feet and looks around him. He's got dishes and a pan in reach. A plastic bag from the trash. He goes to the pan that Dean cooked the eggs in and estimates it will increase his reach by a foot and a third. He walks until the ankle cuff stops him, then leans forward as far as he can while still maintaining his height, pan stretched out in front of him.

It barely touches the tip of the phone. Castiel wavers and the pan smacks the end of the phone, flipping it end over end before it clatters to the floor. Scraping the pan along the floor like a cup, he brings the phone to him and then picks it up in his own two hands.

He stares at it. He presses the on button, and it flashes to a password screen. Underneath that is the ability to make an emergency call. Pressing that, it takes him to a dialer.

The numbers waver and he blinks rapidly.

Then he puts in Balthazar's number. The call symbol taunts him, so close, all he has to do is press it and Balthazar will be there. The FBI will track the phone and find it here, or some cell phone tower near here. He can go home.

Dean would be arrested. He'd never be able to come back to the bunker, but Anna could get him out of prison. Couldn't she?

Why is he hesitating?

"Cas."

Castiel whirls and sees Dean standing in the doorway.

Dean raises his hands like Castiel is about to shoot him. "I see you found my phone," Dean says gently. "Saw you looking at it for a good minute there, Cas. Think you could hand it to me?"

"But my brother," Castiel says automatically.

"I'll find a way for you to talk to him, okay? I promise. Please, Cas."

It suddenly occurs to Castiel that Dean should have just assaulted him and taken the phone. Castiel was clearly too out of it to hear him coming back. Why didn't Dean just take it by force? What would he do if Castiel pressed the call button? Would he attack Castiel then?

"I know you don't want me to go to prison," Dean says softly. "I know that, Cas. You don't want to hurt me, do you?"

"No," Castiel whispers.

Dean takes one careful step forward. Castiel doesn't press the call button. "I promise I'll take care of you. I promise, Cas."

Hand shaking, Cas holds out the phone. Dean takes it, turns it off and slips it into a pocket.

Castiel knows one of the major symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome is when the captive refuses to leave captivity. Refuses to take opportunities to escape. But when Dean takes Castiel into his arms, pulling his body close to Dean's, he still finds comfort in it. He lets Dean hold him, lets Dean press Castiel's head to his shoulder, and lets Dean take his hand and lead him to their couch. Their couch. Their bed. When did Castiel start considering all of this his? When did he consider it to belong to both of them? He uses words in his own head like they're a couple, and not captive and captor.

Dean's hands are gentle on his face, stroking along his cheekbones. "Cas?"

Castiel focuses on him.

"Cas. Thank you. _Thank you_ ," Dean says.

"I'm losing my mind," Castiel tells Dean.

"You're not –"

"I am! You kidnapped me, Dean, and I've failed twice to get away from you. I know what Stockholm Syndrome is, I've seen it in victims, I'm a fucking FBI agent. I'm trained. I know better than anyone exactly – exactly what's happening, and it still fucking _happens_." He takes a deep breath. "Dean."

"This isn't like those cases, that's not us, that's not who we are," Dean insists. Passionate. "I'm not some random kidnapper, and you're not some random victim. I'm your soulmate, we were meant to be together and it's only heaven's fault that we're not. We're together, Cas. That's everything. That's fucking everything. Screw what the world thinks about it."

"But I miss –"

"I'll find a way for you to talk to him, I made that promise and I will keep it." Firm. Unyielding. "Cas. Stop thinking. There will be time and energy for that later. Right now, you're – you're overwhelmed. You need to calm down. Please."

Castiel exhales, deep and long.

"Okay? You with me?"

Castiel nods. "I'm with you."

Dean pulls Castiel into his arms again, so that Castiel is curled up on his side and settled between Dean's legs. One hand runs through his hair, five lines of firm pressure. The other makes circles on his back, fingers pressing into tightened muscles until they relax. After a few minutes, Dean rearranges them slightly so his back is pressed against the couch and then he holds Castiel. Holds him in. Degree by degree, Castiel collapses against him until there's nothing between them, until Castiel falls.

He just falls.

* * *

Castiel wakes up in bed. He's been stripped down to just his boxers, and Dean is curled around him in the same. Up until now, he'd never felt Dean's bare stomach against his bare back. That much skin. Dean seems to run hot, almost hot enough to cause Castiel to sweat where their skin touches. When Castiel twitches, Dean tightens his hold and squirms closer, murmuring something in his sleep as his palm presses against Castiel's stomach, tickling. Dean's knees hit the back of Castiel's and a calloused foot runs along his right ankle. Castiel lies there, thinking, but his thoughts seem to stop a few points into a process. His mind can't pull it together.

Then Dean rubs against him, and he's hard.

Dean starts and wakes himself up. Instead of stilling unnaturally like someone caught, he simply shifts over and pulls back the covers. Like someone who has done this before. He slips out of bed, and Castiel turns over to look at him.

"You're awake?" Dean whispers.

Castiel nods.

Rather than leave, Dean circles to Castiel's side of the bed and kneels on the floor. "How are you doing?" Dean asks quietly.

"Why are you whispering?" Castiel asks, voice pitched just as quietly out of habit.

"Why are you?" Dean smiles. He strokes Castiel's cheek with the back of his hand, then leans in and gently places a kiss on Castiel's forehead, then on his lips. When Castiel only blinks at him, he goes in for another, this one longer. His hands frame Castiel's face, not quite holding him still, but definitely holding him.

The third kiss, Castiel responds. He opens his mouth a little bit and Dean takes the opportunity immediately, licking the inside of his mouth and then sucking on his bottom lip. He pauses only to breathe warm air into Castiel's mouth, then kisses him again and again. Castiel explores the sensation of stubble and the softness of Dean's lips, curious. A tense arousal sits low in his body, a clash of desire and fear.

Dean withdraws only to rise to his feet and kneel on the bed, leaning over Castiel with one hand holding him up. He's close enough that even though they're not touching, Castiel can feel the heat emanating from his body.

He kisses Castiel more wildly, leaving Castiel's lips wet before he moves to Castiel's jaw. He plants little sucking kisses along his neck and Castiel gives a whole-body twitch. A moan slips out and Castiel freezes in surprise. Dean matches the noise with a moan of his own, panting against Castiel's neck.

Dean uses his free hand to skim along Castiel's body, starting at this cheek before running down his neck to his chest, open palm against Castiel's pectoral. Then he slides his hand down Castiel's side, to where his boxers sit on his hips. He rubs the skin there, where Castiel's hipbone juts out, just like the first time Castiel slept in the same bed as Dean. Castiel, every nerve in his body screaming different things at him, thinks it must be deliberate.

Those fingers stroke along the boxer's band, then slip under, tracing the trail of hair that leads to Castiel's cock.

Castiel grabs that hand in panic and Dean immediately stops. "Okay," Dean whispers into Castiel's mouth.

He withdraws his hand, but instead of backing off like Castiel expects him to, he lowers the lower half of his body so that Dean's cock is pressed against Castiel's thigh and thrusts against it. Dean kisses Castiel as he does it, open-mouthed and then biting his lips very gently. Castiel groans and thrusts upward on instinct, finding Dean's thigh a pleasurable pressure.

"I – oh," Castiel says, voice pitched too high. "Dean." He places both hands on Dean's chest and applies light pressure, like a question, like asking.

"Please," Dean begs, voice filled with arousal. "Like this? Please." He takes one of Castiel's hands and kisses it before letting him go and riding Castiel's thigh again, one long, slow thrust. "Cas, I want you so bad."

Castiel doesn't know what to do, what to think. He can tell he's half-hard, and that he's not going to come without being touched. But he's not sure he wants to come. He's not sure he wants Dean to come on him, either. Panic robs him of his words and makes him breathe fast. Dean responds to his silence by kissing him again, carefully and thoroughly. He doesn't keep riding Castiel, instead focusing all his efforts into turning Castiel on – first just the kissing, then a thumb lightly caressing his nipple. Dean scratches up his ribs lightly, before pressing his palm against Castiel's skin, into the small of his back so he can encourage Castiel to thrust upward. Castiel lets his hands fall to his sides.

It's all strange and new. The sensation of another man instead of a woman, the way Dean's body is so much harder and larger. Dean's cock, separated from Castiel's skin by only thin fabric. Once he hit thirty, Castiel never expected to share a bed with a man. And he definitely never expected it to be like this, where Dean has so much power over him.

In some way, Castiel chose Dean by not dialing his brother. Can he go back from that? Does he want to?

As if finally sensing his panic, Dean lays on top of him with the majority of his weight, chest to chest, hip to hip, his legs over Castiel's. One of his hands holds some of his weight, and the other holds down Castiel's wrist. "Shh," Dean whispers into Castiel's ear. "Calm down. I'm here." He kisses Castiel's neck. "I can make you feel so good, if you let me."

Dean's weight holds him down and still. It gives him no choice. Staring into Dean's green eyes, Castiel slowly calms down. He can give in. He can do that. Then it's not his responsibility. Fear of being vulnerable ratchets upwards at the same time his body relaxes.

"That's it, Cas. That's it. Can I touch you?" Dean asks. "My hand around you? My mouth?"

Castiel opens his mouth but no words come out. He's not even sure what he would say. Then, "Okay."

Dean breaks into a full, wide smile. He lifts off of Castiel enough to slip a hand to Castiel's boxers, then under the band, until his hand meets Castiel's cock. This time Castiel doesn't stop him. Castiel thrusts upwards and moans, following his body's instinct to chase the pleasure. His hands clench into fists at his sides. "Oh fuck," Dean says. "You're beautiful like this."

After a few more long strokes, Dean rises up slightly. He shifts where Castiel can't see, then Castiel feels the bare and damp head of Dean's cock against his upper thigh, and Dean thrusts lightly.

He's having sex with Dean. With his captor. Everything else about Dean – the supernatural being real, saving the world – fades into nothing. There's just him and Dean, in the same bed.

Dean's hand is on his cock, working him to a full erection. He grips Dean's arms, to push him away or pull him closer, something, but he can't move any further. Dean takes it as a sign of welcome, kisses the center of Castiel's chest, just over his heart. Some part of Castiel wants to panic, is panicking. Another part says, This is going to happen. Let Dean take control. This is not your responsibility.

Castiel doesn't know how long it's been, how long Dean's been riding his thigh or caressing Castiel's dick. But he feels the orgasm closing in. He moans without control and his head tips backwards as his entire body tenses up and then he _comes_. Hot and fast into Dean's hand.

"Oh, Cas," Dean says, sounding faint. He thrusts against Castiel's thigh one more time and then hot liquid spills over Castiel's skin.

Castiel lays there, panting and wrung out, marked by semen. His own, and Dean's. His mind is blank and floating. He can do nothing more than stare at the ceiling, even when Dean leaves the bed. Even when Dean returns, gently pulls off his boxers and then cleans up their semen. He's naked, and Dean is naked, but they've had sex now, so what does that last line of defense matter? Castiel let this happen. He can't go back. If he said no tomorrow to sex, Dean would listen. But sooner or later, Castiel would give in because Castiel is weak.

Castiel thinks he consented. He said yes. But at the same time he's not sure he knows what consent _is_ , in this situation.

"Fuck, Cas, don't cry," Dean says, sounding panicked. He wipes away Castiel's tears, hesitates, leaves and then returns with the blanket he'd kicked to the floor. He wraps it around Castiel and himself, hugs Castiel close. It's even comforting, to have Dean pressed against him. He's used to it, after five months of sharing a bed. He closes his eyes briefly, noting how different it feels to have skin against skin in this context. It's closer, warmer. Cas moves for the first time, pressing his entire body into Dean's. "Shh, Cas. You did good. I love you, I love you so much."

Castiel looks at Dean, who stares back at him with love and worry. He thinks that Dean doesn't understand how it feels to be taken, and to give in to it. Otherwise Dean wouldn't have pushed Castiel this far, because Dean does love him. Possessive, frightening love. But also enough to fill the whole world, totally encompassing love.

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and then whispers, "I know."


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings (spoilers)** : Dubious consent blowjob (receiving), mild self-injury. I left the sex scene unedited, let me know if it's too explicit for here.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

The next morning, Castiel wakes second; Dean is already gone. For a moment he's confused by his nudity, and then he remembers what happened last night.

He had sex with Dean. He let Dean have sex with him.

He gets up and walks to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He examines his skin, but Dean was thorough last night – there's no dried semen anywhere. As far as sex goes, it was even fairly tame, what they did. Castiel didn't even really touch Dean, just his arms and chest. And when he looks in the mirror, he looks the same. He supposes. Same hair, getting way too long. Same blue eyes, except they look uncertain and anxious. Two emotions he never had much use for, that during the rare times he did feel them, he was simply able to push them away and continue the task at hand. Because there always was a task – you don't get into the FBI by not working hard.

What is his use now, except to be Dean's?

Of course Dean took that away from him. His job, his purpose. Dean is trying to change Castiel's entire perspective and wrap Castiel's thoughts around him. And he's not failing.

Castiel drops his head to his chest and grabs the sides of the sink. A little flutter of panic works its way up him, waiting to be spilled out of his mouth. He exhales harshly and wipes his mouth, swallows and swallows.

But he runs through a list of all the good Dean has done. Dean and his brother saved the world, not once but at least twice, and that's just the things Castiel knows to be true. Yes, Sam began the apocalypse, but when both heaven and hell are manipulating you that becomes difficult to stop. Castiel is the innocent prisoner of someone who saved the world. Does that even the scale? Does Castiel owe Dean for saving his life and the lives of everyone he loves? Does he owe Dean his body and his loyalty for that?

Philosophically, most would say no. Castiel would have. Hotchner and the team would. And even Castiel still does. If he had been able to get away from Dean without putting Dean in prison, he would have done it. He thinks he still would.

And yet, Dean's not a horrible person. That's what makes this so fucking horrible. Castiel can't help but think about how careful Dean has been with him, how much Dean loves him, how Dean tries to please him, and that completely screws up his internal ability to remain objective. Castiel's own conflicted feelings and assorted issues aren't Dean's fault. Well. They are. But it's not _intentional_ on Dean's part. He wants happiness and he can't get it unless he keeps Castiel prisoner. He knows he can't get it otherwise.

Dean is a good man. Slightly crazy, but a good man. Dean saved the world. Dean let his brother go.

Dean won't let Castiel go.

Castiel takes his limp cock in hand, lifts it to examine it. How strange that yesterday Dean made him come. That Dean kissed him and took him apart, and Castiel just lay there and let it happen and didn't fight. How strange that Dean wants this, this part of him.

The mirror shows a tired face when he looks up. He doesn't feel like an FBI agent anymore. He doesn't feel that easy confidence and drive to do the job. His thoughts are all twisted up and he can't unravel it. Squinting at the mirror, he decides he doesn't even look like an agent anymore. Hair too long, always wearing t-shirts and sweats.

Castiel clenches his hand into a fist and swings at the mirror.

It shatters into several large pieces, most of which actually stick to the backing. The rest fall into the sink and to the floor. His hand is bleeding from a few deep cuts and when he relaxes his hand from a fist, he feels the motion tug at torn skin. Blood drips off his fingertips. Moving carefully, he picks up a large shard, looking at the edge.

There's a knock at the door. "Cas?" Pause. "I thought I heard something, are you okay?"

The shard is sharp on all sides, so if Castiel wants to use it he's going to cut his palm in the process.

"Cas, you have twenty seconds to respond or I'm coming in."

But what would he use it for?

The door opens with a slow creak. Dean is standing in the doorway. Castiel can see his bare feet out of the corner of his eye. Dean takes a tiny step forward, then rocks back on his heel.

Castiel looks up from the bloody mess he's made of himself. "Can I get a haircut?"

Dean swallows once, then twice. His eyes are wide. "Sure. Need to clean up first, though. Mind handing me that?" he asks, pointing at the mirror shard. He steps fully into the bathroom and holds out an open palm.

Castiel sets it carefully in his hand.

"Thanks, Cas." He places the shard in the sink and with his other hand he grabs Castiel's upper arm, pulling him to his feet. "I'm going to get you to the kitchen, then clean up your hand."

And he does just that, Castiel completely compliant when Dean physically puts him in a chair. Dean's slightly out of breath when he returns, but he immediately sets to cleaning out the cuts with rubbing alcohol. He frowns at their size before bandaging the smaller ones. The largest cut, between two knuckles almost up to his wrist, he decides to sew up. It even looks like medical grade thread, the kind that dissolves after a few days. He numbs it first, then puts in perfectly precise stitches.

"Cas. Look at me."

Castiel does.

"I'm going to make eggs, okay? Then we're going to watch a movie in the den. You need to stay here while I cook. Got it?"

Castiel nods.

"Okay. Tomorrow when you're a bit healed up, we can cut your hair."

Dean speeds through breakfast. Castiel, if he didn't know Dean, wouldn't have seen it. But Dean usually makes his way leisurely through cooking, as it's something he enjoys doing. He'll even usually chatter as he goes about past meals, and some hilariously bad ones he made while John left him and Sam alone in a hotel room with only a microwave.

He doesn't even bother to put the dishes in the dishwasher. He takes Castiel to their couch and sits him there. Castiel spends almost five minutes staring at the blank TV screen before Dean says hesitantly, "Cas, can you talk to me?"

Castiel looks him in the eye. "We had sex."

"Well, technically – you know what, never mind. Yeah, we did. Is that what this is about?"

Castiel covers his face with his hands. "I don't know."

"Did you want to? Have sex?" Dean asks.

"I don't know that, either," Castiel says plainly, dropping his hands to look at Dean.

Poorly hidden shock and guilt flash across Dean's face. He rubs his mouth, not able to meet Castiel's gaze, then nods. "I'm sorry, Cas. I really – I really am so sorry. I've never been _that_ guy." He winces. "Okay, so I have. In hell. But I never meant to hurt you. I should have, we should have talked about it first. I shouldn't have just pushed that on you."

Castiel frowns, emotions starting to break his numbness. It's uncomfortable and he doesn't like it. "You once told me you had a rule, with Sam. That Winchesters don't apologize, they make it right."

"Tell me, Cas. How do I make it right?" Dean rushes out the words, searching Castiel's eyes.

Castiel smiles at him sadly. "You won't."

"You still want to escape," Dean states.

"I don't want to hurt you."

Dean exhales roughly. "That's why you didn't make the call. Isn't it?"

Castiel feels his throat go tight and looks down. "I don't deserve to be a prisoner, but neither do you."

Dean scrambles off the couch to the floor, making Castiel start. He kneels in front of Castiel, and this isn't the first time he's done it, but it's as powerful now as it was then, because Castiel knows that Dean doesn't kneel to anyone. Dean smiles painfully. "I've never apologized so much in life as I have with you. Don't get me wrong, I knew I would have to. That I would need to." He pauses. "I'm working on getting you a way to call your brother without it being tracked. I wanted to wait to tell you for your birthday, in month, but. I'm working on it."

Castiel blinks at him.

"The bunker has a secret exit that opens onto a huge field," Dean continues. "I'm going to change the boundaries on the cuff to let you outside."

Castiel knows that perhaps a psychologist would call this emotional manipulation. But while Dean is many things, a manipulator isn't one of them. His mind doesn't work that way. To him, this is a gift. It is to Castiel, too. And that's dangerous. Mouth dry, he says, "Thank you."

Then Dean whispers, "Did I rape you?"

This is manipulation. This is. But even as he knows that any member of the BAU would tell him so, it still affects him. "I don't think so," he says slowly, and he thinks it's the truth.

Dean closes his eyes briefly. "Okay. How is your hand doing?" He stands.

Curling his hand sparks pain, but the stitches hold. "All right."

"Time to go watch a movie, then. You've never watched _Men in Black_ , right?"

* * *

Castiel's hand heals slowly. It still protests any movement when Dean sits him in the bathroom with a shaver and gently tilts his head just so, while hair falls to the floor. Dean gets rid of most of the length, so his hair is slightly wild instead of actually curly, and then goes in with a bare shaver around the nape of his neck and his ears. He's quick and practiced, and it makes Castiel wonder if this is another thing Sam and Dean did for each other. He can easily imagine Dean cutting Sam's hair as a child; he was certainly responsible for just about everything else.

Though he expects otherwise, Dean doesn't make another sexual move. Instead he curls around Castiel at night just like before, taking a shower before bed (to masturbate, presumably) and then leaving in the night if he does wake up aroused.

Which happens a lot more than Castiel remembers.

Some part of Castiel regrets it when Dean leaves, and the rest of him is relieved. He doesn't know what he would do if Dean came on to him again. It was pleasurable and he enjoyed it, at least physically, but it also terrified him and made him feel like he was slipping off an edge he didn't even know was there.

But as the days pass, the numbness of losing his brother begins to fade and he relaxes in Dean's presence again.

The day of Castiel's birthday, he wakes up to the faint smell of pancakes and the sound of Dean singing Led Zeppelin. He wanders to the kitchen and finds a plate of pancakes with berries arranged into a smiley face. Whipped cream makes curly hair. He looks up at Dean, unable to repress his smile. "Really, Dean? I'm turning forty, not ten."

Dean points a spatula at him. "No complaining!"

Castiel sits and grabs a fork, still smiling.

After flipping a pancake, Dean adds, "I got you presents. I was thinking you could open them at lunch – I made chocolate cheesecake late last night for your cake, like you asked, but I think it could use a few more hours to set. So, cake then presents?"

"All right," Castiel agrees.

He's in the middle of eating his pancakes when there's a small flash of light. Castiel looks up, puzzled, and sees Dean standing there guiltily, a small camera in hand.

"You seriously intend on taking pictures of me opening presents or something?" Castiel asks.

Dean clears his throat. "Damn flash. Well. I've been taking pictures longer than that."

"You've been taking pictures of me." Castiel sets down his fork. "Without my knowledge."

"Um. Yeah. First just because, and then after you nearly escaped – using the spell – it was like evidence." Dean shrugs and doesn't meet Castiel's eyes.

"Evidence of what, kidnapping?"

Dean raises his head at that. "That you were here," he says simply. "That for a while, I had you. That you were mine."

It's disturbing, if only because it does sound like something an obsessive stalker would say. In fact, Castiel has heard words that almost exactly mirror those from stalkers and murderers attempting to justify their actions. Hearing it come out of Dean's mouth shouldn't be a surprise, and yet it is. But rather than keep silent about that conclusion, Castiel asks, "Do you know how incredibly creepy that sounds?"

"Well. I – okay, yeah." Now Dean looks embarrassed. "It's definitely creepy."

Castiel pauses. "Do I even want to see them?"

"It's not like you're naked in any of them!" Dean protests, shoving the camera in Castiel's direction. "Just a few of you sleeping, and reading books and dumb shit like that. Here, take it."

Castiel picks up his fork. He supposes he should have lost his appetite, but these pancakes are fantastic. So instead he sighs and says, "No, thank you. Just no more taking pictures of me like that. Deal?"

"Deal," Dean says instantly. He sets the camera on the counter and finishes off the last of the pancake batter before sitting opposite Castiel. He digs into his own pancakes with fervor, apparently satisfied with the deal and not giving it a second thought. It makes Castiel wonder how important those pictures really are to Dean, that he lets it go that easily. Of course Dean could be lying, but Castiel doesn't think he is. As far as Castiel can tell, Dean has never actually lied to him.

They watch _Hot Fuzz_ after breakfast (when Castiel says, "This is the most realistic cop movie I've ever seen," Dean bursts out laughing), then Dean asks Castiel to go read something while he gathers the presents from the parts of the bunker Castiel isn't allowed to go.

The presents are wrapped in bright blue paper. There are all kinds of odd shapes and sizes. Castiel finds himself both amused and puzzled as the heap gets larger. Dean brings the cheesecake last, lit with four candles. "For each decade," Dean explains. "Forty candles would probably set us on fire."

Castiel smiles.

Dean smiles at him and puts the cake down on the coffee table. "Make a wish."

Castiel pauses, then thinks, _Let me get out of this without hurting Dean_ , and blows the candles out.

They divvy up the cheesecake and Castiel eats enough that his stomach aches afterward. It makes him think of Balthazar, because up until this birthday they'd spent every single one of both their birthdays together, eating cake and ice cream until they were sick. Even when Castiel was the BAU, it was like the universe worked around him and let him spend a few days in Texas. Remembering that turns the sweet taste of the cheesecake slightly bitter.

"Well," Dean says. "Time for presents?"

Castiel nods.

Dean sets the closets present just out of Castiel's reach from where he sits on the couch. He licks his lips. "Before you open those, I wanted to offer another one."

Castiel looks at him warily. "All right."

Dean kneels in front of him, and sets his hands on Castiel's knees. He gently applies pressure to split them, but when Castiel resists he stops. Castiel's breath hitches.

"Are you –" Castiel begins.

"I want to blow you," Dean says urgently.

That knocks the breath out of him. "Oh."

"Can I? I won't touch you otherwise," he adds hastily. "You don't have to touch me at all, either. I just want – I just want to please you."

Castiel stares at him, completely taken aback. It reminds him of some of his coarser coworkers talking about their girlfriends doing this act for Valentine's Day. Dean offers as if they are boyfriends or something. Something. Dean got off with Castiel, but that doesn't imply a relationship in Castiel's mind. Castiel still doesn't know what to think about the fact they had sex. "I – I don't know how I feel about having sex with you. You're a guy and I'm a _prisoner_ , Dean. We're not lovers."

"I won't do anything you don't want," Dean says, not reacting to most of that. "That's why I'm asking like this. You say no, then the answer is no." Then he waits.

Does Castiel want that? Is he capable of wanting that? Can he trust that desire, if it does exist?

Because he thinks it does exist, in some capacity. The first time he kissed Dean, he'd failed to get aroused and couldn't even explain to himself why he'd responded at all. The second time, he'd gotten half hard and then Dean had brought him the rest of the way, to a powerful orgasm. The fact that fear and some degree of pressure lie under that is … confusing. Castiel doesn't know what to do with the conflicting wants. That Dean is a man is a secondary confusion, but still one that exists; he can't decide how much of his lack of interest in reciprocation is because Dean is a man and how much of it is because Dean is his kidnapper. He wants to escape. He also wants to take comfort in Dean's presence. He liked kissing Dean, even if he found the sex itself overwhelming and passing a boundary. He has let his kidnapper have sex with him, and there's shame in that.

He wants to say no. He wants to say yes.

"Kiss me first," Castiel blurts.

Dean looks at him and then slowly smiles. "You like kissing?"

Castiel shifts on the couch, but Dean is already moving, crawling over to the couch and then climbing next to Castiel. His hand skims along Castiel's jawline, teasing at the growing stubble there, and then he's kissing him.

Without making a conscious decision to do so, Castiel returns those kisses. He buries his hands in Dean's hair, which is surprisingly soft, and Dean's hands don't wander below his neck. Before long Castiel's lips are swollen with being kissed and lightly bitten and sucked. His mouth feels thoroughly used by the time Dean breaks away.

"Are you bisexual?" Castiel asks.

Dean blinks, but pauses and answers. "Yeah. I mean, I didn't often go with guys, the hunting community is a bit conservative that way and Dad would've – well, getting caught by him wouldn't have been a good idea. I had a bit of a reputation as a ladies' man, just because I went after women in a more obvious way." He looks at Castiel intently. "Did you ever think about guys?"

"To be honest, I didn't think much about sexuality at all," Castiel says. "But all my partners were women."

"Well," Dean says with a little smile, "I've been told my blowjobs are mindblowing. Do you want to give one a try?" He caresses Castiel's cheek. "No pressure, though. Honestly. Say the word and you open your real presents."

Castiel imagines it. Dean sucking him off. It's a surprisingly submissive role for him to take, considering the psychology behind Dean's kidnapping. But then Dean always subverts expectations. "I –" He swallows, and then silently nods. He thinks he wants this. He'll try it.

"Tell me if you want to stop," Dean murmurs, sliding down Castiel's body.

Dean's hands smooth along Castiel's thighs and up to the waistband of his sleep pants. He hooks his fingers into the band and pulls gently. Castiel lifts his hips up off the couch and Dean pulls both his boxers and pants down to his knees in one fluid motion. Dean gently works it's down past his knees, to his ankles, so Castiel is essentially naked from the waist down. Dean's hands encourage Castiel to move his lower body closer to Dean, while spreading his legs apart. Castiel's throat goes tight and he feels queasy. He has to resist the urge to pull up his pants and run out of the room. Really, only Dean's hands on his skin stops him.

Castiel's not anywhere near erect and there's no small amount of uncertainty in allowing Dean to do this, but he bites down hard on his hand when Dean takes his entire soft cock into his mouth and begins to suck.

It's hot and wet and Castiel starts when Dean rakes his nails down the inside of his thighs. After less than a minute, he begins to harden. Dean releases his cock and holds it to lick at the tip and the slit, sucking hard on the head. Then he licks his way down to Castiel's balls, which he hefts gently. By this time, Castiel's cock is fully erect and Dean can't quite fit all of it in his mouth.

Castiel doesn't know what he expected, but he didn't foresee the little frown of concentration on Dean's face and the overwhelming lust in his eyes when he looks up at Castiel. His left hand moves over his pants as he sucks. The expression on Dean's face is just as focused, aroused, and emotional as any lover Castiel's ever had.

That's what he is in Dean's mind. His lover.

What is he to Castiel? Not lover, but something just as intense. He stops fighting that, and places a hand on Dean's head, not forcing him down but just holding him. Dean's head bobs and Castiel spares an instant to think that this is wrong – that letting things go this far is wrong. Castiel's feelings for Dean are growing past fear and worry. They're well into a confused attraction and a reluctant feeling of friendship and intimacy.

Dean is his kidnapper, but Dean is also his friend.

Castiel's orgasm takes him by surprise. He thrusts upward sharply as he feels it come, and Dean has to hold him down and then everything whites out for a second or two.

Castiel comes down from that high gasping. His cock is still in Dean's mouth, who is holding it there without sucking, as if he knows that that would be overstimulating. Castiel looks down into Dean's green eyes, and has the feeling Dean is grinning at him right now.

When Dean finally lets Castiel's cock slip out of his mouth, he doesn't spit. "You taste good," Dean tells him instead. "Thank you, Cas."

A little hysterical bubble of laughter rises, but Castiel only lets it escape for a second.

Dean looks pleased instead of disturbed. He caresses Castiel's genitals, curious and light instead of arousing. "I hope you don't mind, but, uh, I came in my pants." With that, he pulls Castiel's boxers back up, carefully working it around his ass. He tucks in Castiel's dick with an odd sort of fondness. At the same time, Castiel can see the wet spot in his jeans now. "Do you want a shower? I need to change."

"Okay," Castiel says.

Rather than leave Castiel alone, Dean leads him to the bedroom and gives him a fluffy towel to use. He even lays out Castiel's clothes. When he's done that, he carefully embraces Castiel, giving a long, firm hug. Castiel finds himself holding onto him frantically, feeling an overwhelming rush of realization. He let Dean give him a blowjob.

He let his _kidnapper_ give him a blow job. And then his kidnapper got off on it.

Dean turns on the shower and finally leaves, kissing Castiel's hand and then shutting the door.

Halfway through his shower, Castiel gets it. Dean knows Castiel is going to panic afterwards. That's what all that aftercare was about, even the joking. He's predicting Castiel's freakouts and trying to plan around them. For some reason, Castiel finds this comforting. At least one of them knows what to do. This time when he hefts his limp cock and looks at it, warm water sluicing down his back, it doesn't seem so strange that Dean wants him. It seems natural, just a part of Dean like any other part. He wants to cuddle, he wants Castiel to hunt with him, and he wants sex.

Castiel doesn't have the slightest fucking clue what he wants anymore.

Castiel dresses and returns to the den. Dean took the time he had to arrange the presents from largest to smallest. Castiel laughs a little when he sees it, and Dean turns around with a grin on his face. "What? I was bored."

The couch seems the obvious place to sit. Surprisingly it doesn't smell like sex. "Which one do I open first?"

Dean sits next to him and hands him a large present. Castiel looks at the wrapping. The blue covers most of it, but it looks like there was a bare spot that Dean had to cover with one of the old newspapers. Seeing a date makes him remember. "Happy Belated Birthday, Dean."

Dean blinks.

"January 24th, right?" Castiel asks. "I just realized I completely forgot about that."

"Yeah," Dean says, smiling. "I didn't mind missing it. You were here, it was a good birthday."

"You're very strange, Dean."

"Yeah, I know. Now come on, tear the shit out of that and ignore the fact I spent hours wrapping it."

X-Box One, packaged with Call of Duty, Grand Theft Auto V, and Assassins's Creed. "Pretty obvious why I got those." A toaster. "We don't have one and I was getting desperate for more gifts." A carefully designed wooden box with a secret lock, and inside of it is salt, iron, a few items he doesn't recognize, and a blessed knife – dull, but still dangerous. "I trust you. They're all for self-protection." A set of clothing, all in Castiel's size. Slacks, socks, t-shirts, dress shirts. Jeans and soft t-shirts. "I thought you might be sick of sweats and weird side-button pants." Shoes. "I can't guarantee no pinching, but they're your size. For when you go outside." A Kindle. "You have too many books, dude. And I say that as someone with a big-ass library."

All that's left is a small box, lovingly wrapped so all the edges are neat, unlike the others. Castiel traces the folded paper and looks up.

"Before you open that one, Cas." Dean takes a deep breath. "You asked me why I want to keep you here. What my motivation was when I barely knew you."

Castiel listens. This ought to be interesting. Dean always tries to show his thoughts by actions instead of words.

"Well, now I do know you. And I know it's caused you pain, but I'm so glad you didn't escape. You're really – you're _really_ a good person, not like me. You want to help people and you empathize even with murderers, or me. Even when it was really early on and I was just some crazy kidnapper spouting off nonsense about soulmates and angels. But I –" Dean frowns, looking frustrated.

"Dean –"

"Please," Dean says. "Let me get this out before I go chickenshit."

Castiel nods.

"You kick in your sleep," Dean says. "You snore just a little if you sleep on your back. It's almost cute, but also kind of annoying. You cuddle, because you like to be touched, but I think you'd rather kick me in the head again than admit it. I think that's why you like to kiss. You think the best of everyone except yourself. You were lonely, before, but you didn't want to admit it because you loved your job so much that you thought that didn't matter. You wanted a spouse, but feared losing them to your job." He half smiles. "Which trust me, I get. So you thought you'd never get married. You took the job at the FBI because you wanted to make a good mark in the world.

"You don't like to show your emotions. You think it's a weakness. Your co-workers told you a lot that you were too in your head and didn't let yourself relax and feel. You were really, really scared when I first took you, but you barely showed it because you were so focused on getting a handle on me and escaping. You're smart. Really smart, like you would totally have caught me if you'd known the supernatural was real kind of smart. I mean, you don't have half the knowledge I do and you still find hunts I'd've missed." He pauses. "The first time you kicked the shit of me, I was proud of you. Because you're so strong. I hated having to hurt you to keep you.

"I don't love an image of you. I love you."

A list of traits Dean loves about him is the last Castiel was expecting, and he finds he doesn't know what to say. Thank you? Even more interesting (at least from a psychological perspective) is that none of them were made up or projections. They were more or less true. "Dean … you know I can't say those words back." Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Dean smiles. "I know. Open it up."

Castiel rips the paper to find a nondescript cardboard box. But inside is a smart phone. A few years old, probably. It looks like it's been opened up and tinkered with. Turning it on shows it has a battery and a signal.

Dean waits for Castiel to look at him. "You can place a call to anyone, anywhere. It will last two minutes and then automatically disconnect. One-time use. It can't be traced, even by experts in the FBI. I would bet my life on it."

"So I can call my brother," Castiel whispers.

"There's only two rules: don't tell them where you are or who took you." Dean shrugs. "I know you only know that you're in Kansas somewhere. But one state is kind of small for something as big as the FBI to hunt."

"They might know the second one," Castiel admits.

Dean stares at him a second. "The letter? Damn, I know I should have spent more time reading that thing, but I didn't see anything obvious." He looks away and then chuckles. "And to think I thought I'd get found out by physical evidence or a random witness. Well, I did kidnap an FBI agent. I guess I should have expected that."

"So you sent it?"

Dean looks at him sadly. "Of course I did, Cas. I made a promise. I mean, did you want me to send it certified mail or something?" Dean seems half serious.

Castiel bursts out laughing.

Dean looks at him like he's grown a second head, but he laughs too, like it's catching. "You practically never do that. Smiles and a haha here and there, but not real laughter."

Castiel's gaze falters, amusement fading.

"Don't stop," Dean says. "I love to hear you laugh."

The phone is heavy in Castiel's hand. He wonders if that speech was about convincing Castiel not to drop information during the call – it could be, but he also doesn't think Dean was lying. "Thank you for this, Dean."

"You wanna use it now?"

"Dean, where did you get this? You don't have the expertise to do this yourself." Castiel pauses. "Your hacker friend, the same one who got my file?"

Dean shrugs uncomfortably. "Yeah. I told her I needed to talk to the FBI without being found. For a hunt, of course. I mean, she doesn't know about you. Not _know_ know, I mean. She kind of had to know you were my soulmate because otherwise she wouldn't get the file, but the rest of it is – you know what. Never mind that, it's not important."

It kind of is, but Castiel drops it anyway. Dean set up rules, but should Castiel follow them? What should he say? What if Balthazar gives him trigger phrases, trying to get information? It's entirely possible Hotchner and the team told him Castiel's duress phrases. Castiel didn't call Balthazar before because he was afraid of compromising Dean's safety and freedom, even though he has neither of those himself. If he intended to use this to escape, he should call Hotchner's cell.

Mostly, he just wants to hear Balthazar's voice. And tell Balthazar that he's okay.

Dean is giving Castiel a concerned look, but at the same time he's staying close. Close enough to stop Castiel, presumably. "Talk to him," Dean says. "I know what it's like to miss a brother, Cas."

"But that's not enough to stop you," Castiiel points out.

Dean frowns, frustrated. "I know. But I'm not – I'm not trying to cut you off, Cas. Honestly."

Castiel rather thinks that Dean's in denial about the degree of hypocrisy here, but it wouldn't be the first time. Trembling just a bit, Castiel inputs Balthazar's number and after a second of hesitation, he hits the call button.

"Hello?" Balthazar sounds bored. Normal. A Sunday afternoon.

Sudden tears choke Castiel for a second. "Bal?"

"Oh God, Castiel? Cassie? Holy shit, where are you?"

Castiel takes a shaky breath, any kind of plan he had disintegrating. "It's so good to hear your voice."

"Cassie, can you talk?" Balthazar is asking if someone is listening, he's using standard protocol that the FBI uses. The phrase will vary depending on the situation, but Castiel knows exactly what Balthazar is asking.

Castiel looks at Dean. "Yes. But I'm not alone."

Balthazar replies immediately, sounding frantic as he asks a trigger phrase, "Are you well?"

And Castiel replies, "I'm okay. Balthazar, I'm okay." Not under duress, which 'I'm fine' would have indicated. Castiel wants them to trust what he says, even if he's not exactly _not_ under duress. "I haven't been hurt."

"Where are you? Can you tell me where you are?"

"No. Balthazar –"

"Did Dean Winchester take you?" Balthazar asks. "God, Cassie, the FBI has been looking for you everywhere. I've been out of my fucking mind. Hotchner said Winchester took you, has he hurt you? Are you in danger?"

Castiel breathes for a second, knowing time is running out. Dean looks tense as a wire, poised to take the cell. "Dean has me, yes. He cares about me. He l-loves me." That sounds insane even to Castiel, but it's true. If nothing else it will offer some hope that Castiel is telling the truth about not being hurt, if Castiel tells them his motivations. "Bal, he let me call you to tell you that I'm okay. Honestly, I'm – I'm well fed, I have a memory foam mattress for God's sake. He hasn't hurt me. I don't want you to worry."

A familiar voice enters the call. "Castiel, this is Hotchner. We're tracing this call. I'm going to go through a list of locations. I want you to give me a yes when I say where you are."

"I can't," Castiel says almost immediately. Hot, frustrated tears fall. "I know I'm crazy, but I can't tell you where I am because you would capture Dean." He takes a sobbing breath, but Dean is still just staring at him, watching and listening. "I want to go home, but you can't hurt Dean. He's not, he's not what we thought."

Hotchner's voice is calm. "Did he kidnap you specifically?"

"Yes. You don't need to worry about anyone else on the team. I swear, I'm okay, Hotch."

Dean taps his wrist.

"Castiel. Hold out. We're coming for you." Hotchner sounds as in control as he ever did.

The call ends.

Dean gently takes the cell out of his hand and stuffs it in a pocket. "Are you okay, Cas?"

No. Castiel remembers thinking that his one duty was to escape. That Hotchner would consider that his sole goal. He expected hearing Balthazar's voice to be painful. But in a way, it's also reminded him that the outside world still exists. That more exists than him and Dean in a bunker somewhere in Kansas. Out there is the FBI, is the BAU. Considering how quickly Hotchner got on the call, they've been waiting for this. They're still looking for him.

Castiel suddenly realizes that if he did escape, he'd have to tell someone what he's done. That he, an FBI agent, had sex with a criminal who had taken him captive. That he had failed to take two genuine opportunities to escape from his kidnapper. What kind of agent does that make him? What kind of man?

The shame hurts and his eyes become wet.

In some ways, he wishes Dean were a dangerous, psychopathic serial killer. That would be psychologically easier on him, because he would understand it; he would know what to do. Dean's crazy, but in none of the ways Castiel ever thought to have a defense for.

Dean hugs Castiel, pulling him to his chest. Castiel lets him maneuver him into a more comfortable hold, so that Castiel is tucked under Dean's chin. His body is at an angle to Dean's, curled in so that Dean is like a protective shield.

What would the BAU think if they saw him now? Of course they think Dean is a serial killer, someone who kills innocents, and that's not strictly true. But Castiel is still compromised. Still being held against his will, and taking comfort from his kidnapper. They, out of everyone, would understand, and yet he also knows that they would and should hold him to a higher standard. As for Balthazar? Castiel doesn't even know.

"So," Dean says, clearing his throat. "What are they thinking?"

"What?" Castiel is jolted out of his own thoughts.

"The FBI. I know you're thinking about it, so talk to me. What do they think about this? About you and me?"

That's easy. Castiel's had plenty of time to think about what the team would decide about his abduction. The words come, soothing him as they go. "Most likely your profile was that you're a predatory kidnapper, who took me in order to subdue a victim that most would consider powerful. That in turn makes you feel powerful. They probably think there's an element of revenge as well, for me being in law enforcement. You would exercise your control over me through violence and rape. Whether you would take it to murder would depend on your personal psychology, but they would consider my death a likely outcome when you lost interest. Especially once they had your name."

Castiel pauses. "After the phone call – maybe even after the letter – they probably think that you stalked me for a prolonged period, during which you became convinced we were in a relationship and that I loved you. Kidnapping me would be your attempt at making that fantasy a reality. Depending on my reaction, they would expect for you to rape and torture me into submission. Long-term captivity would be likely, especially since it's been seven months and you haven't killed me yet. The phone call itself they'd consider to be emotional manipulation on your part. A ploy to gain my affection and trust."

"Well, shit," Dean mutters, looking sickly surprised.

"They probably also think I've begun experiencing Stockholm Syndrome as a coping method to survive captivity, and are planning ways to rescue me without my cooperation." Castiel stops, eyes drifting over his comfortable prison. "I suppose they're not wrong about that."

Dean gently turns Castiel's head so he can look him in the eyes. "But you know I love you. Don't you? I really love you. The only reason you still have the cuff is because I know you would run. I know you'd feel that you _had_ to. I want you in my life, Cas. As my partner."

Castiel puts his hand over Dean's, the pain rising in his chest. "I know." He's known that for a long time. He also knows that Dean is distracting him, trying to get him to stop thinking about his brother.

"So, did the FBI have a profile of me?" Dean asks, trying to go for playful.

"Dean, your profile never made any sense."

"Yeah, but you know the truth. So what would it be?"

"A profile is only a tool, Dean." Castiel spreads his hands. "It helps us and local law enforcement figure out who to look for. If we know who the individual is, a profile is more about understanding what motivates someone and what causes them to commit crimes. Your profile was so confusing because we attributed crimes to you that weren't yours."

But Dean says only, "And?"

Castiel thinks about it. "I suppose you would be an intimacy seeking stalker who developed into bride kidnapping."

"Bride kidnapping?" Dean says incredulously.

"You kidnapped me because you want me to be your partner for life. What else would you call it?"

Dean opens and then closes his mouth.

"It still occurs in certain parts of the world. Central Asia and parts of Africa." Castiel is about to go into more detail, but sees that Dean is a combination of upset and disturbed. Going into Dean's various psychological weaknesses and issues that contributed to this behavior would also probably be a bad idea. Dean doesn't deny the illegality and immorality of what he's done to Castiel, but he also doesn't like to be reminded of it.

"I'd never hurt you," Dean says finally. It's his constant fallback, and it's even somewhat true. He's never hit Castiel out of anger, only to subdue him.

"Dean, do you ever feel doubt? About kidnapping me, all of this?" He's never seen Dean have a moment of hesitation about keeping Castiel against his will.

"No, of course not," Dean replies immediately. Reflexively.

Castiel doesn't say anything. Just looks at him.

"Sometimes I think about it, about letting you go, but then. Then I think about what that would be like and I can't, Cas. I know it's fucking selfish, I do." Dean bites his lip. Castiel can't help but see the lost Dean who saw his brother jump into a cage in hell. The Dean that let his brother die, not once but twice, and broke further each time. "But I think you would be happy with me, as my soulmate. I think you can be." He gives Castiel a wry smile. "And you would be a fucking awesome hunter. Better than me."

"I'm an FBI agent, Dean, not a ghost hunter."

"I'm a high school dropout. Trust me, you're qualified."

"Not with a chain on my leg." Castiel lifts his left, where the cuff sits.

Dean looks down for a moment, then gazes at Castiel. He hefts the phone. "I need to get rid of this. Charlie said I could only use it once."

Charlie. Castiel notes the name.

"Will you be okay? I'll be right back."

Castiel nods. "I'll be fine." And almost laughs because he used his duress word.

From the look on his face, Dean doesn't entirely believe him, but he still leaves to dispose of the phone. Castiel stares at his hands and thinks about Balthazar. He sounded so frantic, so worried. It reminds him of when Michael died – Castiel was the one who got the news. Michael had set it up that way because he knew Castiel was the stronger of both of them, that Castiel could take it. He wept in private, but his eyes were dry the day he took the American flag that was draped over his brother's casket. Balthazar was the one who broke down and got black-out drunk. For all of his constant irreverence, Balthazar feels things deeply.

Balthazar must think Castiel is in danger of dying. Or worse. Somehow Castiel doubts his words comforted his brother all that much, but maybe when the BAU makes another profile that shows Castiel will be held long-term in relative comfort, maybe that will help. They won't tell him the worst of it, at least, like the possibility of rape.

But what kind of comfort is that really? Michael died saving a fellow soldier; that didn't help their parents. Dean did everything for his brother, including live. Maybe Castiel should do the same for his, regardless of his shame. Regardless of his caring for Dean.

He still needs to escape from his friend, his not-quite lover, and his kidnapper. He just has to do it on his own; no rescue.

A thought occurs to him. When Dean returns, he asks, "If I had called Balthazar and the FBI tracked the call and you were arrested – Anna would have gotten you out, wouldn't she? She's an angel, she can teleport anywhere she pleases."

A strange expression crosses Dean's face. "Eventually, yeah. Might have taken a few weeks, even a couple of months before she responded to my prayers."

"You fucker," is all Castiel can get out.

Dean sits and reaches out for Castiel's hand, but Castiel yanks it away. After a moment, Dean says evenly, "I take the precautions I do against being caught because I can't count on that. Anna may be incapable of helping me, or unwilling. She could die in yet another heavenly civil war. And the other angels? They dislike me or hate me outright. There's a reason only Anna knows this place even exists. Not to mention my other enemies. If I'm in prison, I don't have salt, I don't have devil traps, I don't have weapons – I'm an easy target. I might not survive until Anna can come and get me."

Tension melts out of Castiel. "If you were in my position, Dean, would you escape to be with your family?"

Dean clenches his jaw. "Your family is safe. Mine never was. And I'll figure out other ways for you to talk to your brother. I swear on my life, Cas."

Castiel looks at the torn and shredded wrapping paper that litters the floor. The presents Dean had given him settled on the coffee table. It seems to represent his life, in tatters, gifted with one thing: Dean.

Maybe the key to this is to get Dean to trust him. He just has to do it before he loses himself in the process.

Day one hundred and ninety.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warnings (spoilers)** : Some violence, some creepiness (no worse than the show), depression.

Feedback loved!

* * *

"So, last time I reset your ankle cuff you had screwed up the spell on it," Dean begins one morning, handing Castiel a plate of cheese and fruit, with a little bowl of oatmeal. "So I was able to change the boundaries without taking it off of you."

Castiel pauses, a grape in hand. This is the first time since his birthday that Dean has brought up his promise to expand the boundaries on the cuff. "What does that mean? You have to take it off to let me outside?"

"I have to take it off to reset it," Dean corrects. "And while I don't think you're going to kick in my skull in my sleep anymore, I can't have you seeing the spell to remove it because you're way too smart and I don't even know how you could use it. But I'm sure you could." He shrugs uncomfortably. "I'm going to have to knock you out." He raises his hands at Castiel's expression. "With drugs, Cas, with a sedative."

"You don't trust me," Castiel says, not sure whether to be disappointed or offended. Though it is an useful insight into Dean's opinion of him. If he's going to convince Dean to trust him, he's going to have to offer some kind of reason he _wouldn't_ escape.

"Well. No," Dean replies, wincing. "Not that far. Not enough that I think you wouldn't run, given the chance." He smiles faintly and settles in the chair across the table. "I never thought this would be easy, you know."

"What did you think it would be?" Castiel asks, curious how Dean will answer.

"Ah, well," Dean says, blinking with his hands fidgeting. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me," Castiel says, not willing to let it go.

Dean spins his bowl of oatmeal, staring down into it as if he can divine answers that way. The fact that he's worried about Castiel's reaction is both intriguing and telling. After a few seconds, Dean looks Castiel in the eyes and says, "I thought you would fight me differently. That you would curse me and hate me, to start with, that I'd spend all my time convincing you that I'm not a monster and a serial killer. That you would, I don't know, throw shit at me and not let me within ten yards of you. But you never treated me like that. You always treated me like a person, even when you were psychoanalyzing me."

"We're trained to operate that way," Castiel says, uncertain how to respond. "Demonizing someone doesn't help you understand them."

Dean looks down at the table. "Do you think I'm a monster, Cas?"

Castiel's throat goes tight, but he doesn't look away when Dean finally flicks his gaze upward. "No."

"But that I'm broken?" Dean whispers.

Castiel lays his hand on the table, palm up. "Dean, you may be broken. But that doesn't make you any less valuable."

After a moment, Dean places his hand over Castiel's. "Sap." And he grins, with all the boyish charisma he's capable of.

"Don't make me slap you," Castiel replies dryly, not moving his hand.

"I don't know, your bitchface is pretty good. You could use that."

Castiel blinks, finally taking his hand back. Dean hangs on for a second before releasing him. "My what?"

"Bitchface," Dean repeats. "Sam had the best, don't get me wrong. He could communicate about twenty different kinds of disgust with me just with his eyebrows."

Castiel laughs.

Dean looks incredibly pleased with himself. "So, can I drug you?"

This is Castiel's life now. Discussing with his kidnapper whether he consents to be drugged into unconsciousness. "If that's the only way, then yes."

Dean nods, no longer quite as pleased, instead more satisfied. He finishes the last of his oatmeal and then grabs Castiel's empty bowl, taking it to the sink that Castiel still can't access. "Let me get ready. And don't worry – I've got the right kind for this, you're healthy, and I know your weight, so it'll be perfectly safe. I'll see you in your room." With that, he takes off.

For a moment Castiel contemplates finishing his breakfast, but he feels queasy enough to throw up, and doing that while unconscious would be deadly. So he pushes his plate away and rises to his feet.

The walls of the bunker are very familiar to Castiel now. In an odd sort of way that Castiel really wishes weren't the case, it even feels like home. Those two huge scratches on the wall aren't creepy, but just part of the scenery. The tiles, chipping at the edges, are no longer out of place, but normal. The lack of windows no longer feels stifling.

Even Castiel's pacing has been become habit. He doesn't trip up against the magical barrier anymore, automatically staying within bounds.

His room is no longer the empty prison it was once, either. The bed is stacked with various blankets and pillows. Most of them are blue; Dean copied that from Castiel's apartment. There's a tiny dresser that has Castiel's clothing. The TV is on a low to the ground, solid stand, though of course the larger one is in the den. The mini-fridge hums as it turns on. If Castiel had walked into this place as a crime scene of a kidnapping, he would have been surprised. He might have diagnosed the kidnapper with Lima Syndrome.

He has no real idea if Dean qualifies for that, though.

Dean wasn't in love with Castiel when he took him, but he definitely considered it a possibility. Castiel's not even sure that Dean intended to hold him for all that long in the original plan. And Castiel was so focused on immediate escape that he didn't anticipate he would need (or could) manipulate Dean into releasing him in the long term.

Castiel sits and waits for Dean, trying to repress his usual feelings of anxiety.

"Hey," Dean says, arriving a few minutes later. "You ready?"

Castiel looks up.

Now that Dean is here, a familiar needle in hand, something in Castiel freezes in fear. He's been in plenty of danger before and felt that distant pulse of fear, but in those cases he had something useful to do and then the situation had passed. Even the time he'd been shot in the line of duty. When Dean grabbed him and put him into a chokehold in his kitchen, it was a place he'd thought he was safe. He'd even done a cursory check before relaxing and unclipping his holster. To be attacked – to be made a victim as surely as those murder victims whose deaths he investigated – had put him into a flavor of terror he'd never experienced before, even as his training kicked in and he fought for his life.

Dean could have easily killed him, had that been his goal. As a professional, Castiel had never blamed murder victims for those easy lapses of concentration and safety. That criminals took advantage was entirely on them. And yet, when it came to his own attack, he cursed his own inattention.

The liquid is slightly cloudy.

"Cas?" Dean is staring at him, worried. "You're freaking me out. You look scared shitless."

"I was just remembering. My apartment." Castiel looks away and settles on the bed, pulling up his sleeve. "Never mind."

The bed shifts as Dean sits down next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see him holding the needle in one, lax hand. "I am sorry for taking you by surprise like that."

Castiel raises his eyes. "You choked me to unconsciousness."

Dean just looks at him evenly. "I know. If it helps, I've been abducted before. Taken and tortured for some reason or another. Even with Sam, I was jumpy for months after."

"If you know, why did you do it that way?" Castiel asks. Why did he do it at all?

"You reacted too quickly; I couldn't get the needle in. If I had gotten that, you'd have been out like a light in a few seconds with no harm done. I thought about drugging your food, but that's risky because I didn't know how much you would eat, or if you would eat. And I'd planned it for that night because your neighbors wouldn't be around, and no one would see, you know. Me carrying you out." Dean pauses. "It sounds way worse out loud than it did in my head."

Castiel huffs a laugh. "You kidnapped a federal agent."

"It's not that. It's that you didn't deserve it."

Castiel stares at him, and Dean just returns it calmly. "You can say that, and still keep me here?" Usually with the acceptance of guilt and wrongdoing is the acknowledgement that it must be rectified.

"I know this is wrong, Cas. But it's worth it, because I have you. And I hope someday you trust me enough to stay." Dean looks away and picks up the needle. He pushes a little of the liquid out, carefully making sure there's no air bubbles before looking at Castiel. "I'm sorry."

Castiel silently offers his arm. Dean finds his vein in the crook of his elbow and pushes in the plunger. Within a moment Castiel's mind is swimming, then it all goes dark.

The darkness lasts.

Returning to consciousness is hard work. Unlike when waking up from a deep sleep, there's a weird heaviness to all his limbs instead of just his mind. And there's something distinctly artificial about it that Castiel remembers from surgery. It feels like he's fighting through mud, searching for a way to open his eyes to the soft light that lies beyond his lids. His body abruptly begins to respond, and he thrashes. His left hand doesn't move, hits a strong, cold line of something.

He opens his eyes. The ceiling is there, just like when he dropped off. When he looks around, he sees Dean sitting next to him and holding the ankle cuff.

It's not on Castiel.

Castiel bolts upright, but his immediate instinct to get up and do – do something fades when he realizes he's been handcuffed to the bed board. "Dean?"

Dean smiles at him, a soft curve. "Hey. You need to be the one to put it back on." He lifts the ankle cuff.

"Why?" Castiel asks. "Why didn't you do it while I was out?"

"It's part of the spell. You have to put it on willingly."

Castiel thinks back to Dean giving it to him originally. "You tricked me!"

"Yeah. I did." Dean smirks. "Not so crazy after all, huh?"

He resists his first reaction of anger, closing his eyes briefly.

Dean shrugs after a moment. "At the time, you still would have put it on if I said it was part of the spell to make it work, because you still thought I was nuts. About the supernatural," he adds after a moment.

Castiel supposes that's true. But this new piece of information also leaves him with a choice: he can refuse to put it back on. Dean would have to put the heavy physical chain back on, but Castiel's chances of escape might be stronger when not bound by magic. But even then, his chances are low. He spent forty days trying to find a way to open that manacle and failed. He got farther with the cuff, even if he can't repeat that now.

But more importantly, this is also an opportunity to make Dean trust him. And willingly take it off later.

Dean is still looking at him curiously, cuff in his lap. "Cas?"

Castiel meets his gaze with what he hopes is not resignation, and instead acceptance. "All right." He holds out his right hand, and Dean places the cuff into it.

"You could switch legs," Dean offers.

Castiel shakes his head as he places it on his left, the smooth metal cool against his skin. All he has to do now is close it. "I've got calluses on this ankle now, it's more comfortable." He takes a deep breath and shuts it, the line disappearing. There's no other sign of magic being used.

He willingly chained himself. He has to tell himself again that he did it for his own purpose.

Dean places his hand on the side of Castiel's face and then goes in for a quick kiss, a peck on the lips. Castiel is so surprised he doesn't react. "Thank you, Cas."

He leaves to grab a key, and then releases Castiel from the handcuffs. Castiel rubs his wrist, feeling slight pain that suggests that he might have been restrained for a few hours with the weight of his arm falling there. Dean takes that wrist and takes over, thumbs smoothing over the muscles and tendons, moving from the inside of his wrist to the space between his fingers. His expression is intent, but also calm and relaxed.

"Dean," Castiel begins. "Have you put yourself in danger by keeping me here? By letting a stranger into your only stronghold?"

"I suppose, technically. If you escaped it would be bad for me," Dean says, shrugging lightly and letting go of Castiel.

"Why?"

"Life isn't worth living without you," Dean says matter-of-factly.

"But was that what you thought when you first did it?" Castiel asks. "Did you intend to keep me here long-term when you first took me?"

A slight frown appears on Dean's face. "I don't know. I thought about it. Why are you asking, Cas?"

"What would you do if I did escape?" Castiel asks.

Dean rolls his eyes, rising to his feet. "I don't play what-ifs."

"I'm trying to understand," Castiel presses. "It would hurt you, wouldn't it? Would you be okay on your own?"

Dean stares at him with wide eyes.

Castiel has two reasons for asking: genuine concern, and to test how far and how much Dean will have to trust him not to run, in order for him to be persuaded to take off the ankle cuff. If Dean fears losing Castiel so much that he can't cope even in the short-term, he may never take off the cuff willingly. Even if he does ultimately desire Castiel to be a free, willing partner.

Instead of answering the question or getting angry, Dean returns to the bed, uncomfortably close to where Castiel sits.

"Don't leave me," Dean begs. His shoulders have hunched over, his hands are in front of him and palm up. His body language screams desperation. There's pure agony on his face, enough to shock Castiel into silence. "Everyone – everyone fucking leaves, Cas, and I can't take it anymore. Dad left, Sam left, everyone who has ever mattered _left_."

That breaks past Castiel's analytic state of mind, right into his heart. He sits up and opens his arms on instinct, and in a moment Dean is filling them, for once taking comfort instead of offering it. Dean's hands clutch at bunches of Castiel's thin t-shirt, and his torso is twisted so he's facing Castiel – it's a full on hug, with Dean's hand laying Castiel's shoulder. Dean vibrates with tension, with whatever surge of emotion Castiel had prompted. He strokes a hand through Dean's hair, feeling an odd sort of tenderness. He tells the truth when he says, "I'm sorry you lost them, Dean."

"I can't lose you, too," Dean murmurs into Castiel's shoulder.

And Castiel pets him, calms him. "It's okay," he whispers. "It's okay, Dean," he says, realizing that if he does escape, Dean might suffer a psychological collapse. Possibly even a full collapse of functioning.

Is he responsible for that? For Dean? Logic says no, but his emotions say yes. Castiel cares for Dean. He considers Dean a friend, even – a very fucked up friend, but it's the only word that comes close to what Castiel feels. Castiel is all twisted up in Dean's issues, and he can't untangle himself easily. And Dean doesn't want to be untangled, because that tangle is what Dean has used to bolster himself through all the trauma he's experienced.

Really, Castiel knows that Dean ultimately needs healthy relationships with other people who are aware of the supernatural. He needs the equal give and take of another hunter, but all those who were that for him have died. John, Sam, and Bobby. Dean is likely incapable of trusting another person that much – except for his soulmate.

That choice, that trust, was made for him. Just like it was with his brother and father. Only Bobby broke the pattern.

It's even possible that Castiel isn't helping Dean at all by being here, and is only encouraging an unhealthy dependence on him. But the fact of the matter is that Castiel isn't a psychologist or therapist and he can't say for sure if that's true. He knows that Dean needs him. It's a question whether, if he leaves, Dean will properly adapt or not. But he also knows that he doesn't owe Dean anything. Not truly.

And yet, Castiel doesn't want to hurt Dean. It feels like a paralyzing paradox.

Dean withdraws a little from their embrace, far enough that he can meet Castiel's gaze. "I can't set you free, but Cas – I'll do anything, absolutely anything else for you."

Castiel swallows. Then, "I want to talk to Balthazar again. Regularly."

"I'll figure it out," Dean promises. "I will, I swear to you." He takes a deep and trembling breath, eyes wet, and then lets his head fall to Castiel's chest. Castiel runs a hand up from Dean's neck, through his hair, and then repeats the motion. Dean leans on him for another five minutes or so. When he does finally rise to his feet, he looks a lot calmer.

"So, outside?" Castiel asks.

Dean nods. "I'll show you where your boundaries are."

He holds out his hand, and Castiel takes it. Then releases it. "Shoes," Castiel explains. "For the first time in seven months I should need them, right?"

"Oh, right." Dean laughs a little, still looking a little unbalanced.

Once Castiel's feet are protected, Dean leads him to a part of the bunker he's never been. The long hallway that Castiel's room sits in has an ending Castiel couldn't pass, with a door he couldn't quite reach. That's where Dean takes him. They go through some areas that look more industrial, with very heavy pipes running along the ceiling. There's a half-door that they both have to crouch to go through, and beyond that tiny room is a flat wall. Dean shows Castiel how to trigger the trapdoor. It leads to a tunnel that slowly rises upward over the course of hundreds of feet, until he faced with yet another steel door.

But when Dean opens it, sunlight pours through.

Castiel pushes past him, heart beating fast. When he breaks out into the sunlight, he has to squint at how incredibly bright it is. He'd barely noticed it during his first escape attempt, because he was so focused on running, but now his eyes fill with painful tears.

He wipes his eyes and forces them open, forces himself to adapt. After a few seconds, he sees a large plain with gently rolling hills. Green plant life dots the landscape with the first signs of spring. The breeze is cool on his skin, but still nowhere near winter, when he was last out here. The sun is low in the sky – sunset is probably an hour or so away. The light gives everything a golden cast.

It's absolutely beautiful.

Castiel's chest seizes up and he has to hold in the tears that want to come. Dean gently places a hand on Castiel's back and says quietly, "Would you like to have breakfast up here sometimes?"

He nods silently.

The boundary extends a few hundred feet in every direction. Castiel's world has suddenly been expanded several times over. Castiel spends the next hour wandering it, just absorbing the fresh air and the feeling of sun on skin. Dean leans against the entrance, which is tucked into one of the rolling hills, and just watches him. Castiel sits in the dirt when the sun begins to set, watching as the edges of the sky darken. The few wispy clouds are lit up a bright orange and pink, and as the minutes pass Castiel can see them go return to gray when the sun sets behind the curve of the earth.

When the last slice of the sun disappears, Castiel hears Dean come up behind him. "Come inside?" Dean asks.

Castiel takes his hand and Dean pulls him up.

That night, Dean breathing into the nape of his neck, Castiel dreams of sunrises.

* * *

Two hundred and forty-seven days in, Dean has enthusiastically embraced his camera. He almost solely takes photos of Castiel, who under normal circumstances would find it creepy, but Dean has taken to both warning him ahead of time and trying to capture moments when Castiel happy. So instead it becomes kind of sweet. When Castiel watches the sunset, Dean takes an image of that. When Castiel finds that new pie recipe delicious, that deserves a photo. When Castiel is amused at something Dean has said or done, he's been known to lunge for the camera, making Castiel laugh.

Castiel lets himself feel the natural (or perhaps unnatural) affection that comes to him in those times.

Dean backs off from asking anything sexual of Castiel, but he begins to give him little kisses throughout the day. Often on his hand, sometimes on his lips. It's a bizarre courting technique, but it definitely teaches Castiel not to flinch when Dean wants to get close. So maybe not so bizarre.

About once every week or so, Castiel tests how much Dean trusts him – by asking a question about where they are, or asking for access to another part of the bunker. But Dean always stops when it comes to anything that would help Castiel escape. Asking for books on spellwork (or anything possibly related) is a firm no. Books on monsters is a reluctant yes, just because Castiel continues to search through newspapers for hunts.

At the same time, Dean is relaxing more and more in Castiel's presence. The only problem is that the reverse is also true.

Dean comes up to Castiel's spot (a nice, flat rock) outside that morning and says, "I'm going to take care of that hunt you found."

Castiel looks up from his book, a fiction thriller. So far Dean has very deliberately avoided anything that has or relates to kidnapping, much to Castiel's amusement. "How long will that take?"

Dean settles next to him on the dirt. "Not sure. It's a tough one. I haven't been able to identify what it is either, so it may take longer. I'll leave you with everything you need, like usual. Tomorrow."

"All right."

Dean gets up to leave.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"What happens to me if you die out there?" Castiel asks. "You always say that won't happen, but I've heard your stories of how even good hunters can make a simple mistake and die."

Dean shifts on his feet and then clears his throat. "Okay, well. There's a contingency plan, but I can't tell you what it is."

Part of Castiel isn't surprised. The rest is torn between feeling grateful and angry. So he decides on a neutral response. "Hmm."

Dean watches him for a second, but when nothing else is forthcoming he kisses him lightly on the forehead. "See you later."

That night, it occurs to Castiel that he could kill Dean and then call Anna for help. If he was willing to actually hurt Dean that way. Most likely she'd be extremely angry that he'd done that, but it would force her to release him if she was going to keep her word. Starving to death would be 'major harm,' wouldn't it? For that matter, Dean probably has someone to come by and take care of Castiel if Dean were to die on a hunt. If Castiel restrained Dean long enough, would they come? He could try to convince that person that he was a prisoner and needed to be set free.

But there's a decent size chance that wouldn't work. That anyone Dean chose for that task would be loyal to Dean first, and morality second. To overcome their loyalty to Dean, Dean would have to be out of the picture. There are ways Castiel could try to manipulate that outcome, but if it failed it would kill any chance Castiel has of escaping again. He's pretty sure a betrayal … an _act_ of that magnitude would make Dean decide he could never be trusted.

Fuck.

Five boring days later, Dean returns. Castiel's outside again, but the secret exit/entrance that he uses is far enough from the road that he can't even hear the car. Which makes sense, otherwise Dean wouldn't have let him out here. All it would take is one person pulling over to check their map and Castiel would be free. So the door creaks open and Dean is there, standing in the doorway.

He's limping and his face is bloody. Castiel shoots up and to his side. "Are you okay?"

"Could use some stitches," Dean says, looking exhausted. "You game? I'm pretty sure your hands are steadier than mine at this point."

"Of course," Castiel says immediately. He gets his arm under Dean's and takes him to the Men of Letters infirmary. It's one of the new places Castiel has access to. Theoretically the place is full of weapons in the form of medical supplies, but like the knife Castiel got for his birthday, Castiel has no real intention of using them.

Dean knows that, of course. That's the point. He knows Castiel doesn't want to hurt Dean, and definitely not for anything less than an escape.

He settles Dean on an exam table and cuts off his clothing, despite Dean's protests ("Those were my favorite pants! Aw, c'mon you really liked that shirt.") and cleans up the wounds first. He has huge slashes across his chest and back, and one on his calf on his right leg. Not all of them require stitches, but about half of them do. Castiel's never had to perform first aid with stitches before, but he knows how to do it in theory. Dean has practice, and gives him all the tips. ("Don't pull the thread that hard. Gentle, dude, gentle.")

Once he's done, he's sweaty and bloody. But for once, he feels somewhat like he once did – a competent officer of the law, not an emotionally-wrought prisoner.

He also feels protective.

"Can you stay?" Dean asks rather blurrily. Now that all the stitching is done, he's drinking vodka. "Just 'til I fall asleep. Man, that was some creepy shit. I hate shadow people, tulpas, so many fucking kinds ..."

"Of course, Dean." He brings up a rolling chair and settles next to the exam bed, watching Dean take even breaths. The damage was mostly cosmetic. Dean will probably have a few interesting scars, more to add to the collection which Castiel now has memorized. He's seen Dean in every state of undress and knows his body almost as intimately as he knows his own. An hour in, he goes and gets his abandoned book and returns to reading. When Dean murmurs in his sleep, Castiel absentmindedly strokes his forehead until he calms.

A rattle grabs his attention. He looks up as darkness flickers at the corner of his vision. A small instrument table rolls a few inches.

He could put it down to his imagination, but he knows better now. He sets down his book and places his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean, wake up."

"Wazzit?" Dean asks sleepily, eyes closed.

"A tulpa, Dean. That's what it was?"

Dean opens his eyes. "Yeah?"

"I think I just saw one."

Dean bolts upright. "Fuck. Are you sure?"

"Sure I saw something, but not certain I know what it is. Blackness just out of sight, and that table started rolling. It can't be a breeze or a minor earthquake; I felt nothing." He stares into Dean's green eyes. "Dean, can those follow people?"

Dean rolls off the exam bed. "I've never heard of it, but that doesn't mean it can't happen. Especially since I torched where it was staying. I did a cleansing spell, that should've gotten rid of it, but if that didn't work and its home was gone …" Dean rubs his bottom lip, thinking. "Yeah. It could've attached itself to me." He looks up.

Castiel feels a chill and turns. There, flickering down the room like a piece of jello wandering in and out of this dimension, was a black, spidery human figure. He has an instant to feel shock – only his second meeting with a supernatural being – and then Dean grabs him by the arm and runs, dragging Castiel with him. It pulls Dean's stitches, leaving lines of blood and Castiel says, "Your back –"

"Don't argue, follow me!" Dean shouts.

Castiel looks back again and sees it following them, jolting forward in inches or feet at random intervals.

"Holy water, holy water –" Dean is muttering, still pulling Castiel through the hallway. "Blessed by Tibetan monks and some sage –"

Dean tries to pull him into the library.

"Dean, I can't!" Castiel says, stopping at the entrance.

"It's not safe and the library has sigils that protect against supernatural forms –"

"I _can't_ ," Castiel repeats, looking down at his ankle.

Horror and understanding fill Dean's face. He releases Castiel and darts into the library, running through its shelves. Castiel focuses on the hallway, watching the figure steadily approach him. "Dean, can I exorcise it or something?" he calls.

When it's six feet away, Castiel realizing he's about to die and he should just run, Dean returns with an ancient looking jar and throws it down the hallway at the shadow. It explodes into a thousand pieces and liquid splashes out of it, causing the shadow to flicker even more and then disappear into wisps of darkness. Castiel grabs Dean's arm, feeling a fear that is entirely different from facing down a human monster. "I don't think that killed it," Castiel finally gets out.

"It didn't," Dean says. He looks down at Castiel's ankle. "I need to get somewhere safe and prep the spell. But only the library has sigils that will keep a tulpa like that out."

"Dean, I can't go into the library," Castiel says evenly. "You have to remove the cuff."

Dean stares at him. Castiel stares at the growing darkness at the end of the hall.

"I don't want to die," Castiel tells him.

Dean kneels, places his hand on Castiel's ankle, and begins to chant in some alien language. After about twenty seconds, the cuff opens with a quiet click and Castiel kicks it away.

The shadow figure flickers in front of him and Castiel raises his arm in self-defense, like he would with a human opponent, but the shadow's arm passes right through him for just a bare second, before re-solidifying. Claws rip into Castiel's skin from his shoulder to his waist and he screams. Dean pulls him through the doorway at the same time. The shadow figure rushes at Castiel, but it scatters into smoke when it gets within an inch of the door. Castiel, panting and in pain, can see the scrolling symbols embedded in the floor. He'd never given them much thought before this, but similar ones cover almost every surface of the bunker.

Dean's hands are on his face, his shoulders. "You're okay, it's okay, Cas. They're not deep."

Taking few gulping breaths, Castiel nods and struggles to his feet with Dean's help, pain radiating from his core. There's blood, a fair amount of it, but when he looks down he realizes Dean is right – the wounds are only centimeters deep. It mostly shredded his shirt, not his skin. They hurt like hell because the shadow figure clawed him more than it cut, but they're definitely not life-threatening.

"You with me?" Dean asks.

Castiel nods. Focuses. "How do we get rid of it?"

Dean wavers on his feet, still half-naked. "Best way is holy water, holy oil, sage, and a piece of black garnet. I didn't have the garnet so I fudged it a little with a red garnet and a piece of obsidian." He shrugs painfully. "Stupid. It looked like it worked, but it only got the thing mad."

"Okay, so we have those things?"

Dean squints and looks around. "Yeah. Somewhere."

Castiel flinches when he sees the shadow figure throw itself at the open doorway again, but it scatters just like before. Seeing a supernatural creature bound just by an arrangement of symbols is rather amazing, Castiel decides. The ankle cuff itself he's always associated with his captivity, but this – this is protection. "Will that hold?" Castiel asks.

"Probably," Dean says, not even looking. Not nearly as enthralled as Castiel, he's already searching the library stacks and that locked cage Castiel couldn't figure out how to open. He takes out a flask and a jug from one part, searches through boxes, and then takes out a tiny little paper envelope. When he opens it, a rough black garnet spills into his palm. "Three out of four." Dean looks at Castiel. "We need fresh sage."

Castiel says slowly, "And that's in the kitchen."

"Yeah," Dean admits. "We're going to have to run for it."

"How?" Castiel demands. "I can't shoot it, and it doesn't look – stabbable."

Dean sets the black garnet on a desk and looks around the room. "Okay, so. One of us – you, probably – only needs to keep it busy long enough for me to get the sage. The spell's really short and I still remember it. If I get everything together and you can hold it off I can do the spell in the kitchen and we won't have to risk the run back here."

"That's your plan?" Castiel asks, disbelieving.

"Welcome to hunting," Dean says, "land of make it up as you go." He shoves into a stack of boxes and finds a tire-iron. Beyond that he grabs a long, cardboard box, which he opens. He gives the contents to Castiel.

"It's a stick!" Castiel says incredulously, eyeing the three foot long branch.

"A stick blessed by six popes and a full coven of witches," Dean replies matter-of-factly. "It'll work. Just swing at the thing like it's a baseball bat. I'll take the iron." He pauses. "Are you ready for this?"

Castiel looks at him steadily, his mind working. "They flicker ahead but they don't teleport long distances, right? Then I think you should go first and sprint for the kitchen. I'll cover your back."

"Sounds like a plan," Dean says dryly.

Castiel heft his weapon. He doesn't know how much the shadow figure can interact with reality, but he's going to assume it can knock him off his feet if he's not careful enough. He lets his martial arts training take over and balances himself. "Ready."

Dean gives him one last long and searching look, then approaches the door. Castiel keeps on his heels. Dean hesitates at the doorway and then lunges through, swinging his tire-iron as he goes. The shadow figure appears and disappears just as fast, reacting to the iron in Dean's hand. The second after, Castiel is out as well. Dean runs ahead while Castiel faces the shadow figure. It dances closer, and Castiel wields his blessed stick almost like a sword, swinging in a downward arc. It screams, making Castiel's hair stand on end, but it backs off.

Backing up that way, Castiel keeps the thing at a distance of several feet. Anytime it jumps forward he reacts by slicing through the air before it reappears, and within half a second he's hit it again.

Before long, Castiel is near the end of the hallway where it meets with the kitchen, and he can hear Dean speaking quickly in what sounds like Latin.

The shadow figure twists and turns when it hears Dean and then jolts forward several more feet than it had previously – enough to bring it into Castiel's guard. He falls backwards, sacrificing his footing to slice into the creature, hoping that hurting it will cause it to back off long enough for him to stand.

Then it screams again, whirling around almost like a tornado before pieces begin to fall off, like small pieces of tissue. They dissolve when they hit the floor, and when the last piece disappears the keening sound goes with it.

"Is it dead?" Castiel asks, standing.

"Yeah," Dean answers finally. "It's dead."

Castiel looks back at him, lowering his stick.

As one, they realize Castiel is unbound. Free. Castiel can see the foyer which has Dean's keys to the Impala. He can almost see the front door.

"Cas, don't," Dean says, desperation in his voice. Desperation that wasn't there when they were facing down a shadow figure that kills.

"Dean, I don't want to hurt you. I don't." Castiel is telling the pure truth. "Just let me go – I won't tell anyone where you are. _Let me go_."

"I can't," Dean says, and brings up his tire-iron.

There's only one way to end this, and they both know it. Either Dean will win, or Castiel will. And Castiel has the feeling that if he loses this fight, he's not going to have the will-power to bring on another.

For once, Dean begins the battle, expression grimly determined. He knows that while their weapons may not be intended as such, they can still do damage. Like Castiel, he has some experience with a long, close-ranged weapon, because he doesn't go for the wide, flashy moves that are shown in film. He's trying to disarm Castiel of his only defense, and he's using his greater weight and momentum to do it. Castiel blocks while he tries to get into Dean's guard, so he can get close enough that the heaviness of the tire-iron won't matter. He's a second too slow and Dean knocks Castiel's hand, the one that holds his weapon. Rather than freeze in shock or try to hold on, he drops it and rushes in, grabbing Dean's tire-iron with his good hand and trying to twist it out of Dean's grip.

They're within a foot of each other, so it becomes a grapple instead of an exchange of blows. Castiel is hurt, but Dean is hurt worse. By getting close enough to grab and twist Dean's wrist, he's able to force Dean to drop the tire-iron, nearly breaking Dean's wrist in the process. It clatters to the floor, a few feet away. Castiel judges the distance, but Dean is on him the next moment and he's fighting dirty.

In a way it's a battle of strength, each trying to get the other into a defensive position. Castiel slugs Dean in the jaw, but though it sets him back it doesn't stop him, even as he spits out blood. Attack, block, countermove. Dean is trying to restrain him, not knock him out, so most of his attacks are focused on breaking Castiel's balance, while Castiel is going for the head. He gets another blow in, and Dean responds by digging into Castiel's injury from the shadow figure, dragging nails into the fresh cuts. Castiel can't help but react, and Dean takes advantage, getting his leg behind Castiel's and dropping him to the floor by knocking him off his footing.

Castiel lands badly due to Dean's weight, his head knocking against the hard floor hard enough for him to black out for a second. Dean is straddling him when he comes back to himself.

Pure panic makes Castiel struggle wildly, trying to buck Dean off. It's less a matter of training and more one of desperation.

"Stop!" Dean shouts. "You've lost!"

Castiel digs in his nails as hard as he can into Dean's skin and Dean curses. Castiel tries to kick him, but Dean sits on his stomach, so Castiel can't get the reach or leverage to kick Dean off. He wriggles and tries to get his feet under him enough to push Dean away, but Dean is both too strong and too heavy.

Within a few minutes, Dean is able to grab one wrist. Then the other. He pushes Castiel's arms to the floor and leans on him with all his weight.

Castiel lets loose a sob. "Don't do this to me," Castiel begs him.

Dean's hands tighten on his wrists. "I'm sorry, Cas." He even seems to mean it, sympathy in his eyes.

Hot tears roll down Castiel's temples. He keeps struggling. There's a dull pain where he can feel Dean grinding the bones in his wrists together. "Please don't do this," Castiel begs again, voice wavering.

"Stop fighting me," Dean demands. "Cas, I don't want to hurt you, just stop!"

He goes limp, blinking back more tears.

Dean takes several large, heaving breaths while he still holding Castiel down. As soon as he lets up the pressure on Castiel's wrists, Castiel bucks upward again and yanks his entire body to the side, so instead of Dean sitting on his stomach he's on Castiel's back. "Fuck," Dean grunts into his ear, and then Castiel flips Dean off of him entirely now that he can push against the floor. He scrambles away and feels a hand on his foot and kicks out blindly. He feels it land, but doesn't look back to see – instead he scrambles to a standing position.

But the world goes black again and tilts.

When it comes back, Dean's got a hand on his wrist and Castiel is on his knees in front of him.

Castiel catches a glimpse of Dean's face, staring down at him with a mixture of anger and horror. But rather than beat Castiel further, Dean starts uses the wrist he's holding to begin dragging him from the kitchen and down the hallway. Castiel knows he has a concussion now and his balance is wrong and he can't quite get his body to move, but he fights Dean anyway. He twists his wrist around, trying to break Dean's hold, but Dean only responds by tugging harder and grabbing Castiel's free hand. Once he does that he gets both wrists in one hand and pulls.

After only twenty feet Castiel falls, forcing Dean to hold up his weight by Castiel's wrists. Dean has to use both hands, but he doesn't stop, dragging him along the floor while Castiel tries and fails to gain leverage by standing, his feet and ankles getting scraped up.

Most of the way to the library, Castiel gives up and lets the tears come. He's failed, again. The sense of loss is monumental – like Castiel can never go back, like that was his last chance. He's never going to see his brother again and he'll be trapped here for the rest of his life, and sooner or later he's going to like it because Dean is in his head, because Dean is steadily working his way into Castiel's heart, unwilling or not. He stops resisting Dean and makes his body lax, and Dean curses when he almost drops him. Dean's hands are rough and tight on his arms and when Dean goes to readjust his hold, Castiel catches a glimpse of Dean's face. There's a single tear track on one cheek, but his jaw is clenching like he's holding in anger.

Dean says, "Cas, please."

Castiel looks away, despair rising in his throat.

Dean gets his hands under Castiel's arms and drags him. The hallway is both blurry and dizzying, so he closes his eyes.

Dean drops him against the wall. "Open your eyes," Dean commands.

When Castiel does, he sees the ankle cuff in Dean's hands. He wants to vomit. He throws himself onto his side and tries to crawl away.

"Cas – Cas!" Rather than a punch or another pull, Castiel feels himself be enveloped in warm arms. They tighten around him, holding on. Dean's legs wrap around his and he shuts his eyes again, as firmly held as any time they'd shared a bed. Dean exhales, hot, against Castiel's neck. "Do you want the chain? Would that be easier for you?"

Bloody, in pain, and dizzy, Castiel just continues to cry. The tiled wall in front of him is blurry from his tears. He can't even think of a response.

Dean says, low and intense, "I love you, Cas. I love your fight, I love how strong you are, but I need you here. Please put it on."

Castiel opens his eyes. He reaches out with a shaking hand and takes the silver cuff, which still hangs open. Dean holds his breath. The scrolling text glints in the light. Castiel has to do this. Whether it's to give in and let Dean keep him here, or whether it's to make Dean trust him, he has to do this. As the cuff settles on his bruised and scratched ankle, he doesn't know which reason makes him do it. It closes with a quiet click and the seam disappears almost immediately.

"Oh, Cas," Dean whispers into his ear. He rocks Castiel. "Thank you."

Some amount of time passes.

Dean sways back and forth, almost like Castiel's a child that needs to be calmed. When Dean asks, "Can you walk?" Castiel doesn't move. Eventually Dean picks him up in a bridal carry, the world swinging until Castiel closes his eyes and focuses on the feel of Dean's breathing. He's still dizzy and pain pounds at his skull, a throbbing pain that begins at the back of his head. Dean settles him onto his bed, one arm still at his back as Dean tries to sit Castiel up.

The world wavers and goes black.

" –ucking hell, shit shit shit," Dean is saying urgently. "Cas, can you open your eyes?"

Castiel looks at him blurrily. "Dean?"

Dean lets out a relieved sigh and caresses the side of Castiel's face. "You with me? You have a concussion. Am I blurry? What day is it?"

"Tuesday," Castiel tells him, feeling confused. Dean sharpens after he blinks a few times. "And no."

Dean nods. "Drink this," he says, giving Castiel a glass of water and a pill. "It's Tylenol. And I'm going to get an ice pack for your head. Then just rest. I'll keep an eye on you, I promise. You'll be fine."

Castiel chooses to believe him.

* * *

Recovering from the concussion takes time. Castiel spends most of it sleeping, sleepy, or confused, and consequently he and Dean don't discuss Castiel's escape attempt. Instead, Dean spends all his energy taking care of Castiel. He brings him easy on the stomach food and more or less insists on walking him to the bathroom. The first few days he sleeps on the floor, but then he returns to their bed. Although Castiel doesn't think he has a brain bleed or anything, he's also too tired mentally and physically to object or even think about it much.

While Dean is in caretaker mode, Castiel slowly sinks into what he knows is depression. He becomes listless, food loses all flavor, and the physical exercises he's kept up since the beginning of his captivity simply disappear from his routine. Despite the lack of physical activity, he loses weight – quickly enough that Dean finds an ancient scale somewhere and takes Castiel's weight every day. His emotions seem to have mostly fled.

Eleven days after Castiel's head injury, after Castiel fails to eat his oatmeal for the second morning in a row, Dean silently gets him dressed and puts on his socks and shoes. Then he leads Castiel out to the back entrance and into the sunlight.

There's a blanket on some grass, with a few pillows heaped on top.

Dean settles him there with a pillow under Castiel's head, then sits next to him and pulls out a book. The sun is too bright at first, but as the minutes tick by Castiel finds himself relaxing. It doesn't take the numbness away, but there's a small part of him that eases, somehow. He watches little flying bugs meander around, and sees a tiny lizard dart out of the brush and into sight before disappearing again. Birds sing at random intervals. As the hours pass, he watches the shadows move. He sees Dean adjust his sitting position and grimace at his legs, like they've fallen asleep.

Castiel drifts off.

* * *

Dean talks to him. A lot.

Sometimes Castiel likes having the conversation there, even if he doesn't participate. Other times it grates on him, annoyance flaring like the sun, even though he doesn't have the energy to tell Dean to stop. But one thing Dean never does is leave. He sticks by Castiel like glue, barely even dipping out of boundary to check his phone.

"Sam was really depressed when Jess died. Thought it was his fault. I can't tell you how many hours I spent driving with him brooding next to me. I felt for him, though. Gotta be tough to lose someone you love like that." "After hell, I just wanted to just – disappear. Not die, not go to heaven or hell, just disappear." "Do you know how hard it was to find a front fender for a '67 Impala? Good thing I knew Bobby."

Eventually Dean's one-sided conversation becomes more random, with less attempts to gain empathy or a response.

"There's this diner that had a C rating, and man, I'm telling you that was generous – but their pies. Oh my God, their pies. I tried to bribe the waitress into telling me where they got them, but she said they were the only thing keeping the diner open and she didn't want to lose her job." "Hanes, dude. I'm telling you, they're the best underwear." "I was fifteen the first time I hustled someone at pool. Uh, officially. That time Dad was with me, keeping an eye out, you know? I pretended to get drunk, though honestly back then even a beer would've gotten me buzzed. But I got this rich college kid to put a one thousand on the line, and when I took it? That was awesome. Though Dad did have to break up the fight."

Castiel can tell Dean is going on the internet and researching depression, because Dean finds tiny things for him to do or experience. Make tea and sip it as the sun rises and sets. He buys adult coloring books (which Castiel didn't even think existed), which are mostly really large, interesting patterns that he can fill in with waves of color. There's an odd kind of satisfaction to it, even if it makes Castiel feel like he's five at the same time. He takes Castiel on walks, then when Castiel is compliant enough, on runs. That increases his appetite slightly. Dean puts on music that Castiel knows for a fact Dean would previously rather have set himself on fire than listen to.

At night, Dean strips Castiel down to his boxers and gives him a massage. He puts Castiel on his stomach and starts on his lower back, working out all the kinks before going upwards. With two thumbs at the base of his neck, Dean pushes up into Castiel's hairline where Castiel had hit his head. He stops just before he reaches the point of impact. Then he does Castiel's arms and hands, sitting next to him and then switching sides when needed. Castiel's legs get the same treatment.

Dean's always careful of Castiel's healing injuries. His feet and ankles are mostly healed, since it was really only scrapes that were the problem. There was a large bruise on Castiel's back, but that's nearly gone.

It doesn't even twinge when Dean flips him over and begins massaging the front of Castiel's body, starting with gentle pressure on his arms. He avoids Castiel's chest, which is healing rather raggedly – he's going to have scars from the shadow figure. Castiel stares at Dean as he does it, but Dean's expression is only calmly intent, revealing nothing of his thoughts. When Dean works his way down to Castiel's thighs, rather than lie there limply like he had every other night, Castiel spreads his legs apart and lifts one knee.

Dean pauses and meets Castiel's eyes. "Cas?"

Propping himself up on one arm, Castiel grabs Dean's hand and pulls Dean on top of him. Dean comes without resistance, knee between Castiel's and his hands on either side of Castiel holding himself up. This leaves Castiel's hands free, and he pulls Dean in to kiss him.

It's gentle at first. But soon Castiel is pushing into Dean's mouth, practically fucking Dean with his tongue. Then Castiel wraps a leg around Dean's and pulls Dean's body on top of his own. Dean's half-hard cock is resting against Castiel's belly, and for a second Dean thrusts, and then he freezes.

Dean sits up and then levers himself off of Castiel's body, wiping his wet mouth. "Cas, I don't think you really want this. Not right now."

"Why?" Castiel asks blankly. He doesn't understand, but he's not totally sure he cares that he doesn't understand.

"You're – you're not even hard, Cas." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "I think we need to talk about this first."

"Talk?" Castiel repeats, some strange welling of emotion coming past his numbness. "Talk about what? Do I have a choice in anything? Do I get a choice where I live, where I go? How about what I eat? Where I shit? Does it really make a difference if I make a choice about whether to have sex or not? You'll hold me here until I say yes, won't you?"

Dean stares at him, breathing hard, then says, "If you never say yes to me again, I will accept that."

Castiel scrambles to his feet, a pure fury rising in him and giving him energy and motivation, filling his entire body and giving him all he needs. He attacks Dean. It's not planned or coordinated, just random swings of his fists in Dean's direction, trying to get closer. Dean backs off rather than try to subdue him, blocking Castiel's strikes while Castiel screams, "I hate you! I hate you!"

Dean backs himself into a wall and Castiel throws himself on him, scratching and kicking. He's well-trained enough that skill leaks past his emotional attacks, but when Dean decides he's had enough, Castiel doesn't have the mental focus to evade.

It's a parody of a hug, with Dean holding Castiel's arms down at his sides. Holding him still while Castiel struggles wildly. Incoherent noises of rage spill out, but when he's no longer able to physically express them, he collapses. Dean stumbles but adapts, taking on Castiel's weight.

"You're okay, you're okay," Dean whispers into his ear. Is he? Castiel doesn't think he is. He's not even sure what compelled him to come onto Dean like that, or to say those things. There's an element of truth in what he said, but he knows that Dean isn't going to force him. Dean might push him, but all it takes is a no and Dean stops. Dean's never going to tie him to a bed and rape him. The question isn't whether Dean will listen, but whether Castiel can say it.

But maybe this isn't even about that, either.

Castiel lost that fight. Now he wants to stop fighting. He's tired – so very tired. He wants to let Dean take care of him.

At last, the anger fades.

The depression is still there, faintly humming in the background of his mind, but it's no longer an expanse of gray clouds. Bits and pieces of emotion are shaking loose as he lets himself think that he's not going to escape. That he's not going to try. That he will take his life as it comes, even if that means giving up control of it. He says it, even if he can only whisper: "I give up."

"You're still you, Cas. And it's okay to be here with me," Dean says, but the words drift past Castiel.

Castiel has gone through the five stages of grief for his lost freedom over the past two hundred and ninety-three days.

He has finally arrived at acceptance.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** The research on synthetic and natural happiness is real. Google 'The Science of Happiness' for the TEDtalk about it. Also, this chapter is a bit longer than usual; the next will likely be a bit shorter than usual.

 **Warnings (spoilers!):** Dubious consent to sex (lots of it), self-harm that is fairly graphic, and depression. Sex edited down just a tiny bit.

* * *

Not much actually changes. At least on the surface.

When Castiel wakes in the morning, depressed and tired like he has been for the past five days since his breakdown, Dean's already been up for several hours. He's showered, his hair is already dry, and he's wearing a pair of jeans that Castiel recognizes as one he only wears when he's going to be out of the bunker. He smiles at Castiel, who looks at him blearily from under the covers. "Rise and shine," Dean says, pulling back the comforter and offering Castiel his hand. Cool air rushes in and makes Castiel shiver, even though by now it's the middle of July, and even the bunker (being underground) has warmed up.

Castiel takes it and lets Dean drag him out of bed.

"So, I'm leaving for a hunt in a day or two," Dean says, holding Castiel's hand as they walk down the hallway to the kitchen. He rubs Castiel's thumb in soothing circles. "I've got time. It's a yearly pattern and I've got a solid month before the thing hits again, whatever it is. That means I'm going to town today to get supplies for when I'm gone. Food, shampoo, that kind of thing. Any requests?"

Castiel shakes his head.

"Breakfast is crepes. I already made you a sandwich for lunch, it's in your fridge." Dean pauses when Castiel says nothing. "One word. That's all I need."

"Thanks."

Dean nods slowly, still keeping his expression cheerful. He sits Castiel down at the kitchen table, where the food is already plated. Dean goes so far as to make sure Castiel picks up his fork. "Okay. I'll see you in a bit." With that, he steps across Castiel's boundary and is out of sight within a minute.

Castiel puts down the fork and winds his way through the bunker, to the secret exit that is his source to outside. The sun has climbed midway into the sky and is rapidly warming the air and ground. That makes Castiel relax instinctively. Sometimes Castiel feels like he can't enough heat. He sits cross-legged on his rock, which isn't yet too hot to settle on in his thin sleep pants. He places his wrists on his knees in the pose he takes for meditation.

Michael taught him to meditate, years ago when Castiel was a young teenager. Castiel was going to public school at the time and was finding the transition from being taught by their master's degree mother to irritated and harried public teachers stressful. One day after Michael's football practice, he took Castiel aside in the backyard and had him sit down in the sunlight and just _stop_. Castiel didn't know it then, but Michael was already planning on going into the military and was taking martial arts. A teacher had recommended it to Michael, and Michael in turn recommended it to Castiel.

He can still remember Balthazar coming home not much later, and dancing around Castiel singing stupid songs until Castiel cracked up. Michael tried to teach Balthazar too, but he was too lively. He couldn't settle down and found the idea of trying to reach a state of non-conscious thought boring.

"How can you stand it, Cassie?" Balthazar asked. "Aren't you bored out of your mind sitting there for an hour like that?"

Deciding it was a serious question, Castiel answered, "I guess sometimes it feels like I want to escape from my own mind. My own thoughts. When I can't control them."

"Thoughts are meant to be shared," Balthazar replied, "not repressed. Don't be repressed, Cassie. That's Mom and Dad all the way."

Michael gave Castiel a secret smile and a little nod, as if to say, _It's okay they don't get it._

That was the beginning of Castiel understanding that he was more like Michael than his parents. That was the beginning of understanding that staying at home in a quiet life wasn't what Castiel wanted, even if going out into the world would one day kill him. It killed Michael. The day Castiel was accepted into the police academy, he knew it might one day take his life, too.

Castiel thought many things, but he never expected his life to end up here.

Unlike that afternoon more than two decades ago, Castiel's problem isn't too many thoughts. It's the lack of them, the lack of meaningful emotion to drive his mind forward.

Dean is there, of course. Dean's like a whisper in the back of his mind, a series of analyses and calculations he can't stop. But the rest of him is too exhausted and depressed to listen.

"Cas?" Dean calls.

Castiel turns to see Dean standing at the entrance to the bunker.

"You didn't eat breakfast," Dean says, striding forward. "Aren't you hungry?"

"I've never told you much about my brother Michael, have I?"

"No, you haven't," Dean relies after a moment. "I'd love to hear everything you'd like to tell me, though." He gives Castiel a wry look. "I bet he was an awesome big brother, unlike the last Michael I met."

Castiel smiles faintly. "Remind me, sometime later."

Dean kneels on the grass next to Castiel and gently places a hand on Castiel's knee. "Cas, are you okay?"

Rather than answer, Castiel turns away, settles his hands in his lap and closes his eyes.

The crunch of grass marks Dean's exit, but half an hour later he returns with a plate of fruit and cheese. Castiel eats half of it, for Dean's sake, but can't force down more than that.

* * *

Castiel is alone.

It's not the first time, of course. Dean's been going on hunts since a few weeks after initially taking Castiel. Especially in those first months, Castiel always tested the limits of his range and carefully examined every portion of the bunker he had access to for any slipups on Dean's part. Anything that could be useful later or used in an escape. But even nearly ten months in, Dean's still really careful. And despite Castiel telling Dean he's given up, Dean continues to take all his normal precautions, including locked doors.

Though Castiel supposes the fact that he's checking, even if it's only out of habit, is telling.

This time, Castiel sits in bed. The blue blankets are soft, the texture itself soothing. He rubs the tips of his fingers along the fuzzy blanket on top with little dolphins splashing across waves. Castiel had laughed when Dean gave it to him.

Light is constant inside the bunker. No moving shadows.

Castiel curls his knees up to his chest and settles his chin on his kneecap, listening to the silence. The ipod sits quietly in the corner of the room.

He's alone.

He's given up, and he's alone. The sense of purpose that had given him life and energy while Dean was away is gone. He has things to keep him company, things to make noise. TV shows and films. The flatscreen sits unused against the far wall. The computer, with its limited games, is in another room. The den has the gaming console Dean got him for his birthday.

Castiel gets up and goes to the bathroom. The mirror is gone. Dean cracked the rest of the remaining shards stuck to the backing and removed the entire thing. The floor was carefully swept. Dean has Castiel use an electric shaver for his stubble. He picks it up and then puts it down. He leaves.

In another corner of the room is the small chest Dean gave him, that included salt, iron, and that blessed knife.

A knife.

He kneels on the floor and opens the chest, noting it's carefully packed contents. He shifts past the salt, holy water, holy oil, and various little protective hex bags. The knife even has a sheathe, though Castiel can tell it's not the one that came with the knife, instead a generic one made to fit the slightly curved blade. The hilt is old and weathered by time, and even the blade isn't very sharp. It would cut if enough force is applied, but that's all. Dean strikes Castiel as someone who keeps very good care of his weapons, so it must be deliberate.

He takes out the bare blade.

All at once, he realizes what he intends to do with it. Hurt himself. He doesn't want to die, but he wants to feel pain.

Balthazar would be so ashamed of him for surrendering. He still thinks that Castiel is fighting, and Castiel isn't.

No. Stop. He's not going to do this. He sheathes the knife and places it on his bed. "You're losing it," he tells the walls.

He walks to his fridge, which is full. He opens it and stares at the contents. Dean doesn't list dates, but he does list what each meal is intended for – breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner. It's packed to the brim, and there's shelf-stable food piled in a large cabinet in another room that would last Castiel weeks.

He traces Dean's sloppy handwriting on the plastic containers, and then shuts the door.

After a moment of thought, he goes through his usual set of exercises. Some days it's incredibly difficult to work up the motivation to continue his physical fitness, or to continue the martial arts aspect of his conditioning. But he usually feels better after his body has been active, natural endorphins doing quite a bit to stabilize his mood. Dean knew that instinctively, or perhaps from experience, hence the forced walks and runs. He wouldn't quite drag Castiel along, but he would definitely wait him out and annoy him into compliance.

A hundred sit-ups. Fifty push-ups. Calisthenics and some yoga, then when he's good and warmed up he switches to punches and kicks and various combinations thereof.

Then he goes outside and runs. He has to go in a big circle – small enough it's noticeable it's a circle – and halfway through he switches directions to make sure he still gets all his muscles equally used. By the time he's done thirty rounds, he's thirsty and slightly light-headed. His body is demanding food. He goes back into the bunker and grabs a water. It's not cold, which means he can gulp it down.

The fridge is two feet from the crate of water bottles.

Somehow reluctant, Castiel opens it and takes out a container labeled lunch. This particular one is a very loaded burger, with a little tiny container of sauce to go with it. Dean knows Castiel likes a vegetable with every meal, so there's also a container of carrots and a little bag of ranch dressing. Castiel rips it open and eats the carrots first, then finishes half of the burger and puts it away.

When he turns, the knife is still on the bed. He should. He should really put that away.

He picks it up, but instead of putting it away, he sits down on the bed.

When Hael was fifteen, she woke him up in the middle of the night with bloody hands. His bright and funny little sister was crying because she had self-harmed (on her thighs, so she could hide the scarring) and cut too deeply. Castiel spent the night bandaging her up and then holding her, feeling a deep panic and fear for her life. Two days later, he convinced her to go to their parents and receive medical care. She got better with medication and a therapist, and kept in contact with Castiel even after Michael's death and Castiel's decision to join the police force, though she doesn't read his letters in return. But she chose to find part-time work that wasn't too stressful for her and stay home. Castiel knows, from her letters, that she leads a happy and quiet life. He's sure she has no idea he's even missing.

He remembers when she tried to explain it to him: "If my body hurts, my mind doesn't. At least for a little while."

Castiel, though he never doubted her, had never understood the appeal. Never had the urge. But pain is now his companion, hovering just out of sight, and sometimes he wishes he could spill it out into the open. Some part of him thinks he should cut up his wrists and arms, and show Dean just how much this isolation hurts him. Maybe if he's bleeding that will do the job.

He examines the edge, testing its sharpness.

He doesn't believe he's weak. He _didn't_. He doesn't think Hael was, but in himself he can call this weakness. Pathetic, even.

The knife becomes too much to hold; he throws it at the wall and feels frustrated tears ready to fall. "Control," he tells himself, shocked to realize how much his voice trembles. "You need to control yourself."

He leaves the room without checking for the knife and does everything possible to keep himself busy. He reorganizes the infirmary, which Dean had stocked thoroughly but haphazardly. That takes four hours. Then he tries to read a book, but stops after realizing he's ten pages in and doesn't know the name of the main character. The gaming console is next, and is slightly more invigorating because he both gets to shoot people _and_ make decisions. He's halfway through a storyline when a sudden exhaustion overtakes him.

He feels like he's been fighting all day. Getting up is a lot harder than it should be, and Castiel stumbles to his room and falls to the bed, asleep within minutes.

When he wakes some indeterminable time later, he sees the knife lying on the floor.

It's not like this is a new idea to Castiel. He knows all the various ways people harm themselves and why they do it. For some it's about sparking an emotion (even one that's unpleasant) where there is none, when a person feels emptiness or anhedonia. Castiel suffered from that because of his depression, but his mental downward spiral is progressing to other things now. With Castiel, it's about managing an already existing emotion and causing dissociation. He knows logically that isn't a healthy coping mechanism.

He will never forget Hael sobbing in his arms, and the blood that had stained his sheets enough he had to throw them away.

Castiel knows that were he in another situation, he'd probably seek cognitive behavioral therapy. He would find someone who could teach him mindfulness and a better way of coping with his emotional state. But he doesn't have that – he has Dean, himself, and a few thousand square feet, if you count outside. He can't escape from the source of the emotional pain or seek treatment for it. He doesn't think he has the strength to do this on his own, and yet he can only depend on himself to get through this.

Except Dean. His tormenter. His protector.

Rising out of bed is easy. Going to the knife is like being pulled and pushed at the same time. Holding it in his hands is like inevitability.

The first cut is on the inside of his wrist. He doesn't know why; he supposes it just feels like the obvious place to start. When he watches the blood well up, he realizes he's going to have to explain this to Dean. There's no good reason for Castiel to be holding the knife. He can't plead a kitchen accident or a dropped shaver.

Panic overrides the pain. Dean will take the knife – Dean will limit what Castiel can do. But maybe Dean should?

He looks down at himself. Dean sees most of him most of the time, but he rarely sees Castiel without his boxers, and practically never without Castiel's prior permission. So the second cut is on his hip. So is the third and fourth. His mind goes blanker with each repetition, with the sharp, throbbing pain of the cuts simply drowning out the rest.

When he reaches disassociation, he pulls up his boxers and pants, spots of blood leaking through the fabric. Knife in hand, he walks down the long tunnel to outside. He reaches the very limit of his boundary, hefts the knife, and then throws it with all the force and power he can into the wild. Then he sinks to the ground and watches the sun move across the sky.

* * *

Six hours later, that's how Dean finds him.

"Oh God," Dean says, and Castiel looks up. Dean is in shadow from the angle of the sun; it's midday.

"I tried," Castiel says, the words spilling out as a mirror of his mind. There's a franticness to it, a desperation to make himself understood. Castiel is afraid, terrified, hurting, and he knows it. "I held out. I tried not to, I did everything else and then this morning I couldn't, Dean. I couldn't." He breathes shakily and focuses on Dean's green eyes. Then he does something he's never done before. "Dean, I need help."

Dean walks to Castiel and goes to his knees, pain, sympathy and horrified understanding on his face. He says, "Of course, Cas. Whatever you need." And he pulls Castiel into his arms, heedless of the blood staining his wrist and leg, until he's completely enveloped Castiel with his body. As if simply by holding on hard enough, Castiel will stop bleeding. His grip is tight and almost bruising, but Castiel sinks into that. He feels it deeper than his skin.

Breathing into Dean's shoulder, Castiel whispers, "I can't be left alone. You can't leave me here, Dean."

"I'm here, I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'm not going to leave you ever again, okay? You're going to be fine," Dean assures him. "I love you and I'll always take care of you."

Castiel thinks that's what he needs. He needs Dean to take care of him. After a few minutes, Dean gently helps him get up. Dean's expression is that forcibly calm one that Castiel knows well from the immediate aftermath of all his escape attempts – where Dean is shoving down some strong emotional reaction. There's tiny smears of blood on Dean's clothing from where Castiel's bloody clothing met his. But as Dean guides him down the tunnel, down the hallway, and into the bathroom, he decides that Dean doesn't seem to mind.

Dean has Castiel strip naked and then sit on the toilet seat. He grabs a washcloth, wets it, and then cleans up all the blood on Castiel's skin. He's careful around all the cuts, the kind of careful you only get from experience, and doesn't open any of the scabbing wounds. Probably trying to see how bad the damage is.

"They're all shallow, so that's good," Dean says, offering Castiel a small smile. "They don't look dirty, either. I'm going to just clean them up with disinfectant, okay? Then some large, loose bandages so you don't open any of them back up."

"Okay," Castiel says, voice small.

Dean takes his time doing what he said he would. He moves slowly, as if a quick movement is going to make Castiel startle. Once Castiel is cleaned up and bandaged, Dean grabs a new pair of loose sleep pants and puts them on Castiel. Then he takes Castiel's hand and leads him to the kitchen.

He gives Castiel juice and oatmeal, but made enough for himself as well. After every bite Dean takes, he has Castiel take one, too. Once most of the food is gone, Dean again takes Castiel by the hand and takes him to the den, where he sits him down on the couch. He puts on some random Disney film and sits next to Castiel before gently encouraging Castiel to rest his head on Dean's thigh.

He strokes Castiel's hair. Every once in a while he pulls his fingers through the wild cowlicks, or runs his hand along Castiel's jawline up to his cheek, rubbing circles on his temple.

Something in Castiel loosens. And with that, he begins to weep.

Dean just keeps up that same soothing circle of motions. "It's okay, let it out," he murmurs.

The pain seems to reach a fever pitch before it finally settles, and Castiel's mind is left in a blank state of absolute exhaustion. Without trying to, he simply falls asleep.

* * *

When he wakes up, it's dark and he's in their bed. The sheets even smell freshly laundered. He still has on his sleep pants (with nothing but the bandages on his hip under), but he has no memory of walking back here or being carried. Dean, though, is curled up next to him. One leg is shifted over Castiel's uninjured side, and his hand lies on Castiel's bare belly, while his arm is under Castiel's back with his hand just trailing up over Castiel's shoulder into his hair.

"Dean?" Castiel whispers.

"Hm?" Dean says, then starts as if waking up. His face is a mix of shadows, and his expression thus too hard to make out. "Hey, Cas. How are you feeling?"

Rather than answer, because he's not entirely sure what would come out of his mouth, Castiel shifts around until he's pressed closer to Dean.

"I'll take that as a 'not well', then," Dean says, holding onto him fiercely despite his words. "Do you think you can listen to me?"

Castiel nods.

"Look, I get that you're depressed. Honestly. Sometimes I think I've lived half my life feeling depressed."

Hunting monsters, trying to please an impossible father, and raising his younger brother who ran away first chance he got? Castiel can see why, even without the abusive and psychotic elements he thought were present before. Well. Some kind of abuse is probably still true; Dean's never said anything like that, but Castiel can read between the lines well enough.

"And sometimes … sometimes you gotta find happiness in the little things. Stupid stuff, like finding a hole in the wall that has the best pies in the southwest. Or saving a kid from a water sprite. Cas, you know you've already saved lives, right? You've found more than a dozen hunts, and most of them were stuff I could take care of. You may not be in the FBI now, but you're still doing good."

Castiel blinks, hand tightening into a fist against Dean's chest. He presses forward until his face is pressed against Dean's skin. Dean leaving is helping others, but also hurting Castiel. "I … I never thought about that."

Dean has a smile in his voice as he says, "So yeah. Find it in everything. I know it's hard, it's really fucking hard. Just tell me what you need to me to do. And I am working on you seeing your brother." He pauses and shifts uncomfortably, jarring Castiel a little. "I wouldn't keep you here if I didn't think you could be happy. I think you just have to let yourself, Cas. And let me help."

"I can't be alone," Castiel repeats, knowing it's true. He might have thrown that knife, but there's a hundred other ways he could hurt or kill himself.

"I know, I know. And I'm not going to do that to you, I promise. I'm staying."

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Can I … can I …" Castiel knows this is an odd request. "Can we sleep naked?"

Dean pulls away enough to look Castiel in the eye. But he says nothing, doesn't demand anything. Instead he carefully strips off his shirt, pants and boxers, and then helps Castiel do the same. After some reshuffling, they're entwined again, bare skin to bare skin. Dean's soft cock is pressed against Castiel's thigh, and Dean has one hand on Castiel's lower back. Castiel's dick, just as soft, is against Dean's hip. For all of the skin being touched, it's not sexual. Castiel can feel the physical contact melt into his body. He needed this. He doesn't know why, but he needed this.

Perhaps to feel human again, to feel wanted and cared for.

He doesn't fall asleep again, but instead dozes. Every once in a while he feels Dean touch his cheek, or his bottom lip. Just something small. And once he kisses Castiel on the forehead and murmurs, "I'll take care of you."

* * *

Unlike normal, although Dean wakes up first in the morning as usual, he doesn't leave to start breakfast. Instead he stays curled around Castiel and waits for Castiel to get up with him. He stands outside the door when Castiel tells him that he needs to use the bathroom. After that, he helps Castiel step into sweat pants (being careful of the cuts on his hip, once again), because while Castiel might be happy to sleep naked, he would feel weird about walking around naked, alone with Dean or not. And then Dean follows Castiel to the kitchen.

Castiel sits in his usual chair, hunched over and feeling small. "Eggs and toast?" he asks.

Dean smiles. "Sure."

Castiel watches him go through the process of making it while he thinks. Dean staying so close should irritate him, but it doesn't. Castiel's not sure what to think of it. His shift from only reluctantly taking any comfort Dean offers, to being this needy. That's not a word Castiel has ever applied to himself.

Dean hums as he breaks open the last egg and turns the burner on. He pops four pieces of bread in the toaster and then goes for the butter in the fridge.

Dean wants this. Dean may want him strong, but he also wants Castiel to need Dean the way Dean needs him. Dean _wants_ this. Oh, not the pain Castiel's in. Dean doesn't want that. Six months ago Castiel would have readily agreed that Dean planned this whole thing that way, that he always intended to place such psychological pressure on Castiel that Castiel would one day break. But now? Castiel knows him. Dean is aware on some level what he's done, but he's not willing to admit it. He'll easily place the guilt of kidnapping Castiel on himself, but the effects of long-term captivity is something he's less willing to admit to. And it makes a kind of sense, in Dean's mind – he's given Castiel everything but his freedom. Every comfort, even intermittent communication with Balthazar.

But the end result of this pain is something Dean has been begging for since the beginning. He wants Castiel to stay here and love him.

At the same time, Castiel can't help but think this is the only way for him to survive. To want to survive, and to be happy.

Hating Dean for bringing him here won't help him. Even if Castiel were still capable of that emotion when it comes to Dean.

"Dean, have you ever heard of natural and synthetic happiness?"

Dean frowns, taking out the toasted bread. "What like, happiness from drugs?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. Natural happiness is the joy we feel from getting what we want. Synthetic happiness is still experiencing joy when we don't get what we want, or we get something else, or when we're not given a choice."

Dean stares at him, a stick of butter in hand. "Explain that again to me."

"You're happy as a hunter, right?"

"Yeah," Dean says suspiciously.

"But that's not a choice you made for yourself."

"Hey, I love hunting," he begins defensively. "I help people and get to kill stuff. Demons and angels and all that shit, not so much," he says with a grimace. "But I enjoy my work."

Castiel smiles faintly. "That's exactly what I mean, Dean. You didn't make that choice, and yet you find joy in it."

"You're saying that's artificial? Doesn't feel artificial, dude."

Castiel wonders if it would, for him. He's always half-attributed closed opportunities and limited choices to some kind of fate, and been happy with what he'd been given. "No, it doesn't. The idea is that we choose whether we are happy, Dean." He pauses. "They did a study where there was a final project in a class – two photos. Half were told they could only choose to keep one and frame it, while the other half were told they could change their minds at a later date and receive the other photo. Those not given the option of changing their minds were happier with their choice."

"Not being given a choice," Dean rephrases.

Castiel meets his eyes. "Yes."

"Like you weren't," Dean says. Not a question.

"Yes," Castiel admits quietly.

Dean turns off the burner and puts down the butter. Instead of kneeling, he actually sits cross-legged on the floor right next to Castiel's chair, so he has to look up at him. "What do you think of synthetic happiness, Cas?"

"The researcher says that most of the happiness we feel in life is synthetic," Castiel says. "Being content with your job. Your pay scale. Finding someone else who doesn't fit all your wants, but you love them anyway. Some say private or personal happiness is a better description."

"That's a good summary, but that doesn't tell me what you think," Dean says gently.

Castiel begins to speak, then stops. Does happiness mean surrender? Can he surrender without giving himself over to Dean, accept only his circumstance, and demand equality and respect on the rest? "I don't know."

Dean rubs little circles on his knee, and then kisses it. "All right. Thank you, Cas. You've given me some stuff to think about." He smiles. "In a good way. No worries, okay?"

Castiel nods silently.

After breakfast, Dean comes up with three things they could spend the day doing. When Castiel is unable to pick – his mind freezes up and it starts a flood of emotional reactions – Dean hastily chooses for him. So they spend lunch outside, eating sandwiches and strawberries on a blanket. Dean asks him about twenty questions about the book Castiel just finished, even though it's on the history of water spirits and that normally bores Dean witless. He even manages to be fairly interested.

The afternoon is consumed by Monopoly. Castiel wins.

By evening, Castiel is exhausted again. Dean had him go on a walk, but he declined any further exercise. He brushes his teeth while Dean makes the bed. When Castiel walks out, Dean is looking at him thoughtfully.

Castiel takes off his shirt and eases his pants off without touching the bandages on his left side. He's wearing nothing underneath; he's fully naked.

Dean stares at him, then blinks rapidly and looks away. "Should I, y'know?" he asks.

Castiel nods.

Shirts, pants, underwear. It all falls to the floor. Dean pulls back the covers on their bed, and lays down on his side. He finally really looks at Castiel, raising an eyebrow. Castiel responds by joining him, slipping his feet under the sheets. He places one hand on Dean's waist, and tugs lightly. Dean comes to him easily, and with a bit of adjusting and readjusting, they are as close as lovers.

Is that even possible? To be Dean's lover? The sexual contact they've had was … enjoyable, if also emotionally distressing. If Castiel chooses to let himself be happy here, with Dean, is it possible for it to be the former without the latter?

Dean's body is one of relatively few scars. The one time Castiel had asked about it, Dean had told him that Anna removed most of them; she didn't seem to realize that sometimes people have attachments to scars, or that scars represent the kind of life lived. Dean didn't put it that way, of course, but Castiel has become skilled in understanding what Dean says as well as what Dean doesn't say. Dean is well-muscled, naturally. Not in the way of a body builder or someone who goes to the gym, but the hard, wiry kind you get from a large variety in exercise. Fighting. Running. Even physical labor jobs.

Castiel runs his hand from Dean's shoulder down to the small of his back. Dean twitches a bit, but doesn't open his eyes. His back is smooth, only one small scar near a rib. With his other hand, Castiel touches Dean's chest, across one pectoral and then down to his stomach. Then up his hip, stroking along the fleshy part of his ass.

Dean begins to twitch, his cock stiffening against Castiel's stomach. "Cas," Dean says, blinking his eyes open.

Castiel kisses him. Dean's stubble is rough; he hasn't shaved in days. The sensation is unique to Dean, in Castiel's experience. So is the hardness of the body he's touching. It feels strange and new, a bizarre mirror of his own body instead of something entirely different. It takes Dean a moment to respond, but then he licks his way into Castiel's mouth, hand on Castiel's neck – not pushing or insisting, just holding.

A flutter of panic works its way through Castiel, but not because of Dean directly. Because he knows what he's going to do next, and in the strangeness is a fear. But behind that is determination.

Castiel curls a hand around Dean's cock.

Dean moans, loudly, into Castiel's mouth. Castiel doesn't stroke it, not yet. It's the first time he's touched Dean in a sexual way, instead of being a passive participant. Dean is almost fully hard, the skin over his cock velvety soft while what lies beneath quickly becomes erect. He can feel his fingers meeting the slightly textured skin of Dean's balls, can feel the sack. It's weird, and that weirdness is accompanied by the realization he's touching another man's penis. Is he supposed to find this arousing? It mostly feels very strange, like for a moment he's out of his head looking down at what he's doing. In the next moment, he crashes down to earth and is physically present. As if that's a cue, his cock begins filling up.

Castiel touches the head of Dean's cock with his fingertips, finding liquid there. He rubs it into the slit, because he always liked it when a girl did that for him, and Dean thrusts with his hips, breaking the kiss to cry out, "Oh, Cas, oh fuck."

It's almost a surprise when Dean's hand curls around his own cock, mirroring him. Dean's grip is a lot sturdier, a lot firmer. He makes a tight hole out of his fist, finding the pre-come dribbling from Castiel's cock and using it to make the strokes easier and smoother.

Copying Dean only makes sense, so Castiel does. He tightens his hold and begins to jack him off. It's not quite like masturbating, the angle is wrong and different because Dean's cock is curving away from him instead of closer, and Castiel can't escape the reality that he's going to give Dean an orgasm. Dean is going to come because of Castiel, and something Castiel chose to do. Dean begins to thrust into Castiel's hand, little high-pitched breaths coming out.

Dean suddenly bites Castiel's shoulder, hard enough to hurt, and then semen spills over Castiel's hand and onto Castiel's stomach. Dean's cock jerks several times, then continues to pulse a little bit in his hand as he begins to soften.

"I love you," Dean says quietly, voice rough.

It startles Castiel when Dean gently takes Castiel's hand away, and then rises up to his knees. He pushes Castiel onto his back and moves between Castiel's legs, spreading them apart so Castiel can feel Dean's knees against the inside of his thighs. Dean is panting, still, face flushed and a happy smile on his face.

Castiel smiles slightly in return.

Dean reaches down to where his semen decorates Castiel's stomach, and to Castiel's surprise, he rubs it into Castiel's skin. Like he's marking him. "You look incredibly hot like this," Dean tells him, licking his lips. "Hard, with my come on your belly. If you'd let me, I'd take a picture of you like this."

Then Dean leans down and sucks in Castiel's cock. Spit slips past Dean's lips as he sucks and hums, the vibration making Castiel match Dean's moan with one of his own. He feels his balls begin to draw up, the tension low in his belly readying to explode into a powerful orgasm. He places both hands on Dean's head and says, "I want you."

Dean groans, eyes fluttering shut, and Castiel comes.

He can feel Dean's throat working as he swallows it all. Little sparks of pleasure follow him on the way down from orgasm, and Dean adds to it by gently suckling on the head of his dick. He lies there, breathing hard, when Dean finally lets his cock fall from his mouth. Dean crawls over him in order to kiss him, his mouth still tasting salty. From Castiel's own come.

Dean gathers Castiel in his arms and entwines their legs and every inch of skin he can reach, he touches.

Castiel is floating. The anxiety of having sex with Dean, with having sex with another man, is gone. So is the panic. Dean's skin is hot against his own, and instead of feeling distress, he feels … he feels something like happiness.

He lets Dean hold him as close as a lover, and thinks that maybe 'lover' is the right word now.

* * *

Dean taps his shoulder in the morning. "Is it okay if I go start breakfast?" he whispers.

Castiel nods without opening his eyes, shifting deeper into the covers as the bed tilts because Dean is standing up. He feels that kind of sleepy contentedness you only get when you know you have to get out of bed, like his body is perfectly positioned for maximum comfort, the sheets are soft and warm and covering his whole body, and he's entirely relaxed. No, he definitely doesn't want to get up yet. It's been forever since Castiel had this, since he felt safe and wasn't fighting. He battled Dean for so long.

He knows when Dean returns only because Dean's hand is there, pushing through his hair. "Hey, Cas. It's after nine, think you're ready to get up?"

Castiel opens his eyes and throws back the sheet and covers. He blinks up at Dean.

Who is staring at his naked body with undisguised lust. Dean flushes and shifts his weight, like he knows he shouldn't be staring, but doesn't stop. But instead of coming on to him, he asks, "How are you feeling? About last night?"

Castiel takes a moment to think about it. Last night he'd been surprisingly fine. Yes, there was the oddness of Dean being male instead of female, but the acute anxiety he'd experienced before wasn't there. Shame? Perhaps a little. Castiel has given up on escaping, or at least it's no longer in the forefront of his mind. The idea of one day returning to the FBI and having to explain his relationship with Dean is – frightening. But the act itself, Castiel had been aroused. He came. Dean came on him, and that was okay. Interesting.

"I'm good," Castiel says at last.

A slow, wide smile spreads across Dean's face. "You up for an encore, then?"

Castiel tilts his head. "You won't burn breakfast?"

"Who gives a fuck about breakfast?" Dean shoves down his boxers, exposing his hard cock. Castiel can't help staring at it.

"Not you, apparently," Castiel says dryly, and then Dean is on him. He shifts one thigh between Castiel's legs, to press against his still-soft cock and, with his free hand, he takes hold of Castiel and begins to stroke. Castiel feels himself begin to quickly harden under Dean's skilled hands. The first time Dean gave him a handjob Castiel was too distressed to really appreciate it, but Dean is good at this. It's like he already knows every erogenous zone and how to use that knowledge.

It takes Castiel a second to catch up, but then he grabs Dean's fully erect cock and begins to thumb the head.

Dean breaks Castiel's hold, though, by backing down Castiel's body. He leans over and takes one of Castiel's nipples into his mouth, tugging a little on it. Castiel twitches and squirms, because he's never had someone do that before. His hands automatically go to Dean's shoulders. "What are you –"

"Making you feel good. Ready to be adventurous?" Dean asks.

"I think this whole thing is adventurous," Castiel replies honestly.

Dean smiles, moves further down his body, and then takes Castiel's cock in his mouth. Castiel does his best not to thrust, though the tight heat and pull of Dean's mouth is mesmerizing. Castiel hasn't had sex with a woman in almost two years. His only sexual partner has been Dean, and that's been limited to two acts. Masturbation isn't the same, it doesn't arouse Castiel to the degree another person can. Even porn had limited use for Castiel.

But now Dean is here, kneeling between his legs and sucking Castiel's cock like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

Castiel groans when Dean pulls off. Dean meets his eyes and slowly puts two fingers into his mouth, getting them wet with spit. Then he returns to Castiel's cock, moaning away as he fucks his mouth onto it. With his hands, though, he pulls Castiel's legs up and apart, pushing hard when Castiel is too distracted by his mouth to cooperate. In a minute or two Castiel's legs are pulled up high as they can go with his feet still flat on the bed, and Dean's head is bobbing between his knees.

Then one of those fingers traces his ball sack, and then further down. Wet and slick, it circles his hole.

Castiel jolts, nearly dislodging Dean from his cock. His legs tremble. "What are you doing?"

Dean looks up at him, green eyes dark with arousal. He pulls off and kisses the tip of Castiel's dick. "Just one finger," he says. Promises. He wets his finger again, heedless of where it's been. "It'll feel good. I'll make you feel amazing, Cas. Let me." Then he sucks in Castiel's cock, licking at the slit and then deepthroating him.

Of course Dean wants that. Anal sex is a frequent sex act between two men. But as someone who always considered himself heterosexual, he'd never given much thought to him doing it. Receiving. To a girlfriend, sure, for variety. Trying to imagine Dean taking his decent-sized cock and putting up inside of Castiel is – is – he's not sure. A finger is a lot smaller than Dean's dick, but it's the progression that worries him. "I don't know," he tells Dean, who is waiting.

Dean lets Castiel's cock fall from his mouth and says, "Then let me decide."

Castiel swallows. "All right."

Dean's finger returns to his entrance and rubs the muscle there, teasing. It's a distraction from Dean's mouth, a weird sensation that's not exactly arousing. Then Dean pushes harder, and he feels his body give way and let that finger in. He cries out in surprise and shock. It feels impossibly huge, but he knows there's no more than the tip of Dean's finger inside of him. Dean moans on his cock, but he's looking up at Castiel, watching his reactions.

Castiel is just lying there and panting, half in desperation to have an orgasm and half in desperation to have it end. Dean's finger wriggles around and then there's more and more, bigger and longer, until he can feel the base of Dean's hand against his ass.

He's about to ask Dean to stop when Dean brushes against something inside of him, and in a shock of pleasure he _comes_. He loses track of what he's doing for several seconds, but returns to Dean withdrawing from his finger from Castiel's body, and then sucking the head of his dick very lightly, licking at the slit like he wants more. His eyes are glazed with lust, but also affection. When he releases Castiel's cock, Dean smiles and says, "You're amazing. I love you, I love you so much."

"I …" Castiel can't finish, little sparks from his orgasm still pinging through his body.

Dean moves his body forward with his arms under Castiel's thighs, holding him open, until his own cock is pressed right under Castiel's balls, near his hole. He begins to thrust against Castiel's ass, his own pre-come easing the way after the first few strokes. The head of his dick brushes against Castiel's entrance repeatedly, and the sensation is incredibly intense even as his dick softens. "I'm going to come," Dean pants. "Come right on you."

It's a little weird, that he's already come and just spreading his legs and letting Dean take his own orgasm this way. But Dean is looking at him with such joy in his eyes that Castiel finds himself relaxing and letting it happen. Letting go.

He wraps his legs around Dean hips, being careful of his own because of the still healing cuts. The position holds him open and exposed for Dean. Dean moans at the sight, at the action, and then one hand goes to his cock and he jacks himself as the head of his cock presses against Castiel's hole – not with nearly enough pressure to go in, just there.

Dean's head tips back, muscles tensed, when he comes. Hot liquid splashes across Castiel's entrance. Marking him, again.

Dean almost falls on Castiel, barely holding himself up. He stays there for a moment, satisfaction and pleasure on his flushed face. He smiles at Castiel lazily, happily. "Oh, Cas," he says. He kisses Castiel's stomach, then his dick. Afterwards, he moves up and thrusts forward into Castiel's body one last time, his softening cock just sliding against Castiel's skin. Then, careful and slow, he lowers himself until he's lying on top of Castiel. They're pressed against each other from shoulder to ankle.

Castiel throws his arms around Dean's shoulders and spreads his legs a bit, so Dean can settle between them.

"Hmm," Dean murmurs into Castiel's neck. One of his hands is curled up in Castiel's hair, stroking his nape. "Was that good?"

All the tension has left Castiel, leaving him loose and relaxed. His mind is a pleasantly blank buzz. He adjusts to the weight of Dean's body on his own, having to take deeper and stronger breaths, but the sheer power of Dean's physical presence is calming instead of frightening. Like Dean is holding him in instead of down.

He's almost always gotten a high after sex. Mostly when he let himself go enough to properly enjoy it, which he really only did with women he'd been with for a while. He'd had one night stands, but while they were pleasurable, they weren't as satisfying as when he could let go and trust his partner. With Dean, it's like some part of him initially resists granting Dean trust and control, but when he does – when he does, it's satisfying. It gives him that high where his brain shuts down for ten minutes, where his body is as lax as his mind.

Dean wants to take him there. Dean probably wants to have sex every day.

"Yes," Castiel answers finally. "That was good."

Dean sighs, exhaling while Castiel inhales. "I thought sex with you would be amazing, Cas, because you're incredibly hot. Your body, but your mind, too. But I didn't think it would be this good. I just want to bury myself in you all the time."

Castiel doesn't know what to say.

"Cas – you tell me if you ever want to stop, or slow down. Anything. Don't keep it from me. Okay?"

"All right," Castiel whispers.

Dean gets off of him, running his hands down Castiel's body before he gets up and goes to the bathroom. He returns with a warm, wet washcloth. He lifts Castiel's legs to clean up the semen there, gently wiping his ass, then around his cock and balls. He wipes himself off last and then throws it in the dirty laundry basket. Then he sits next to Castiel, taking his hand in both of his. He searches Castiel's intently, clearly looking for something. "Are you okay?"

"I am," Castiel tells him.

Dean accepts it. "Breakfast?"

"It's not burned?"

"No, I remembered to turn off the burner," Dean says with a smile. "Join me?"

Castiel nods, gets up and puts on some pants before following Dean down the hallway. Dean strides to the kitchen still naked, soft cock bouncing slightly as he walks. He shoots Castiel a smirk when he sees Castiel looking, but Castiel just continues to observe.

"You're no fun," Dean says.

"I'm not?"

Dean pauses. "Hey, I like that about you. I like just about everything about you," he adds wryly. He grabs two plates and goes to the pan on the stove, which has scrambled eggs. He portions it out and returns to the table where Castiel sits and places the plate in front of him, with a fork.

Castiel begins to eat, then when he's finished half of it and all his water, he stares down at his plate for a long moment. "Dean, I'd – I'd like to have some time to think before we have sex again. I'm not going to freak out on you, I just want time."

"Of course," Dean agrees immediately. Looking worried, he asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Castiel shakes his head, staring down at the table. The emotional high of last night and this morning is wearing off. He's not regretting it, but he also knows that he most likely initiated sex because of his vulnerable and depressed emotional state. When he tries to pin it down further than that, it's like a swarm of bees rushes into his head and buzzes the rest of his mind into submission. He can't think. Depression has made him foggy, and that effect is continuing to last even though he's no longer in the depths he was yesterday.

Along that is the subdued, distant sense of panic that Dean will leave and he'll collapse again.

"Dean, how are you going to hunt when I'm like this?" Castiel asks, finally looking up.

Dean pushes away his plate and licks his lips. "I know some hunters I can ask to take cases you or I find. I'd rather not, but if I had to I would retire and live the normal life. But, Cas, I don't want you to worry about that. All you should think about is getting better."

"And how do you think I can get better?"

Dean frowns, but not the upset kind. He looks thoughtful instead. "Honestly, Cas, when I think about when Sam was depressed, I don't know how he got out of it. I know that for me it was the little stuff, like I told you. But more than that? I dunno, man. I'm not in your head, much as I'd like to be. What do you need?"

"I don't know," Castiel says quietly.

Dean just nods.

* * *

Casitel's depression comes and goes. Dean doesn't initiate sex again, but he's also a lot less shy about it. Probably mostly because Castiel insists they sleep together naked – the skin to skin contact is, without fail, soothing. He learns the texture, taste and smell of Dean's body in a more intimate way. Dean's skin is surprisingly smooth, though his legs are decently hairy. His nipples harden easily, and his hands are rough. Sometimes Castiel catches him tracing the scars on Castiel's hip when Dean thinks Castiel is asleep. Though Dean seems to take measures to avoid it, sometimes he wakes up hard, and the soft head of his cock presses against Castiel's back, or his stomach, leaving lines of wetness. This, too, is part of Dean.

Every few nights, they end up falling asleep facing each other. That's where Castiel learns how Dean tastes, when Castiel lays his head on Dean's bare chest and just – licks. A little bit. Dean's never commented, if he's awake.

He's known since the first day they shared a bed how Dean smells after a shower. Now he knows how Dean smells after sex, after Dean's jerked off in the bathroom again, after he's been out and running. Sometimes he smells of spices, and even rarer he smells like smoke and gunpowder. Castiel's never dated anyone in his line of work, so that's entirely new – it makes him realize why a past girlfriend found him slightly unnerving after he practiced with his gun. Gunpowder he associates with danger, with threat, even though most of the times he's fired his gun it's been in a firing range. With Dean, it's probably the opposite.

Dean is never farther from Castiel than about thirty yards. Castiel's panic begins to fade.

Two weeks pass like that.

"How are you doing?" Dean asks, like he does every morning.

"I think my feeling of panic and self-destructive behavior was a direct result of a lack of meaningful activity while alone, as well as a sense of loss because by giving up escape, I have put my life in your hands by choice. That in direct contrast to the fact that I am not here by choice. Those conflicting emotions drove me to extreme lows and a form of psychological breakdown."

Dean blinks.

Castiel eats his breakfast while Dean opens and closes his mouth, clearly trying to find something to say in response and failing.

By the time lunch rolls around, Dean's rallied. "So how do you cope in, you know, a healthy way with that?"

"Option one would be to return as I was. Fighting and always looking for escape." Castiel pauses. "That's not really an option. I don't have the strength left for that. Which is your fault."

Dean exhales, lips pursed and eyes guilty. "Yeah."

"However, I have decided not to continue dwelling on that. It's counter-productive."

"So what's option two?"

"Acceptance of the change in my life. Embracing those aspects that I do enjoy here. Spending time with you. Going outside. Finding hunts." He frowns. "It's a short list."

Dean pauses mid-chew. "I have an idea," he says slowly. "But it would require me leaving for the day – just the day, I swear. Six hours, max."

Like one of Dean's shopping trips. The bunker must be somewhere very remote, because even accounting for the fact Dean buys several weeks worth of food at once and uses an industrial fridge/freezer, the trips take a long time. But Castiel hasn't been away from Dean for more than an hour, and that was always with the knowledge that Dean was within shouting distance. "I don't know. I don't know how I would react."

Dean reaches across the table and takes Castiel's hands. "Sooner or later, I'm going to have to go out to get fresh food. I somehow don't think you want to live off MRE's and canned food. Should I, I don't know, lock you in so you can't get to anything dangerous?"

"Like lock me in our room?" Castiel doesn't know how he feels about that.

"I can move everything from the den in there, so you have everything you need," Dean says. "Do you want to think about it? I'd need time to plan, anyway."

Castiel nods. "Do I get to know what this idea is?"

"Can I keep it a surprise?" Dean asks.

Castiel looks away and then says very quietly, "I trust you."

To his surprise, Dean stands up and, instead of kneeling, he takes Castiels arms and has him on his feet. He cradles Castiel's face in his hand and says, softly and earnestly, "Thank you, Cas. Thank you." He's almost teary, and his smile a little shaky. And then he hugs him.

Castiel hugs him back, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean holds him like that for several minutes before letting him go, and then returning to the table.

"Can you finish your plate?" Dean asks him.

Castiel does.

* * *

"Rock, paper, scissors?" Castiel suggests, holding up both Sorry and Monopoly. They're in the den, sitting on the floor in a cleared out area so they can play a board game. Dean suggested it after it turned out to be raining outside. Board games seemed appropriate in that context; he can remember doing the same with his siblings as a child, because their mother was always scared they'd catch a deadly cold if they went out in the train.

"Sounds fair."

Dean throws a scissors, of course. Castiel's learned that much, though he's careful not to overuse it because Dean seems oblivious.

After Castiel wins, he says, "I want to go outside."

"In the rain?"

Castiel nods.

Dean, ever prepared, insists on grabbing a couple of towels on the way out and stacks them just inside. The view is technically the same grassy, rolling hills that's dotted by bushes, but the rain transforms it into a darker and richer color – sunny green turns into almost an emerald color, and the few patches of still-brown grass darken to a rich gold. It's been a few hours, so the ground is fairly muddy where there's no grass to hold it together.

The rain is coming at a steady pace, definitely not light enough to be called a drizzle, but light enough that the rain drops just kind of settle on Castiel's skin and clothing. He looks up at the gray sky. It's a middling color, not the dark gray of supercells, but a lighter one that indicates only a rainstorm.

Lightning flashes, too far away for its thunder to be heard.

All at once, something eases in Castiel. He feels a bit freer, even though nothing has changed. It's like he took a step back in his own mind and accepted something. He's not quite sure what, but it leaves him lighter.

He turns to look back at Dean, who is standing with his shoulders hunched up as if to protect his neck from rain. He smiles when he sees Castiel looking, but he still has a bit of a constipated expression on his face.

Castiel takes off his shirt and jacket.

Dean blinks. "What are you doing?" he calls from the doorway.

Castiel toes off his shoes and socks next, while Dean stares at him. Then he slips down his jeans and his boxers, until he's completely naked. His feet squelch in the mud and rain begins to drip down his body. The sensation of a breeze on his genitals is very odd, but also somehow liberating. The rain begins to fall a bit harder, making more of an impact. Castiel can feel the droplets splashing off his skin. "Fulfilling a promise," he tells Dean.

"What promise?" Dean asks, looking him over.

Castiel begins to walk his boundary. "When I was eighteen and Balthazar was twenty, he took me to a college party in the hills. I ended up playing truth or dare, and because I knew Balthazar was absolutely going to make me say something I didn't want to admit to, I chose dare."

Dean begins to smile. "And he dared you to run out naked or something?"

"It was raining," Castiel replies, with a faint smile of his own. "He dared me to streak out in the wilderness around the property. I refused, of course. He still brings it up every Thanksgiving." He looks up at Dean. "Join me?"

Dean grins. "Mud-wrestling with my extremely hot b – soulmate?"

Castiel knows what he was going to say, but doesn't comment. "Yes, precisely."

Stripping efficiently seems to be a skill Dean has acquired. Within thirty seconds he's naked, running in the mud towards Castiel. As he comes, he leans over to grab a glob of it. Castiel starts backing up but hits the boundary and falls on his ass. For once, it's amusing, and so he huffs out a breath of laughter.

Dean falls to his knees in front of him, and then admits, "It'd be a shame to cover up your body with mud."

Castiel supposes it'd be appropriate to take a clump of mud himself and throw it. It would be a form of play, certainly, like children do in snow. But the fact that he has to think about it means he's not relaxed enough to actually do that – to play. So instead he offers Dean his hand, and when Dean takes it, he leverages Dean to his feet with Castiel and begins to walk aimlessly.

They spend nearly an hour there in the rain, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Dean splashes in the growing puddles, and Castiel is finally relaxed enough to join him. They use the towels to dry and get off as much mud as they can. They leave their clothing where the towels were and Dean promises, "I'll do laundry later. I sure hope I can the mud out of those jeans." He looks at Castiel. "But trust me, it was worth it."

* * *

Castiel wakes up that night to find Dean's fully hard cock sliding against his lower back. It's not the first time, and after about a minute Dean wakes up with low groan. Then he rises out of bed and goes to the bathroom, only clicking on the light when the door is shut. Castiel finds himself standing as well and he approaches the door before setting his ear to it, to listen.

Within moments, there's the wet sounds of Dean masturbating. There's lube in there now, Castiel knows, in a corner of the one, small cabinet, like Dean was trying to hide it.

Castiel spent most of his life believing he only preferred women. Men were of no real interest, and even now the thought and image of sex with a man isn't really arousing. And yet, with Dean, sex is incredibly arousing and pleasurable. The fact that it's with a man hasn't changed much except the mechanics and the realization that Castiel may be mostly straight, but it's definitely only mostly. Granted, he's only performed acts that were, from his perspective, relatively similar to what he's had with woman – receiving blowjobs, a handjob.

Though he did let Dean come right into the crack of his ass. Semen right at his entrance. It's quite obvious what Dean wants to do to him.

Castiel came with a stroke of Dean's finger. He can't forget that, either.

He's growing hard. He stares down at his cock in the dark, completely surprised, with only enough light from the hallway for him to make out the shape of it as it rises to meet his belly. He presses his hands to do the bathroom door, still hearing those wet sounds, then a quiet, "Oh, Cas."

Castiel opens the door.

Dean freezes where he's leaned up against the wall, hands around his cock. The light is glaring, but Castiel steps forward anyway with his eyes open.

"Cas," Dean says, looking uncertain.

With one hand, Castiel grips Dean's cock, knocking away Dean's hands in the process. He slides his palm down until his fingers find the liquid beading up at the tip of Dean's dick. He swipes it with his index finger and brings it to his mouth and sucks. It tastes salty, but not like the saltiness of the ocean – there's more depth to it, some kind of tang.

Dean moans, feet slipping a little on the floor.

Is Castiel going to do this? Should he? Men in the locker room called each other cocksuckers as an insult. It's implied that one of the worst things a man can do is submit to sucking another man's cock, to take the women's role. He knows that's full of crap, he's always known that, but at the same time he never had interest in dick before, so it wasn't very relevant or personal. But he's not there now – he's here, with Dean. Dean, who he believes is his lover. Can Castiel find pleasure in this act the way Dean does?

Meeting Dean's shocked, nearly all-pupil eyes, Castiel kneels. He grabs the base of Dean's cock with one hand, to steady it, then slowly slides his lips over the head of Dean's dick. The salty flavor is stronger, but so is the smell of Dean's musk, which is strange yet appealing. Castiel knows the give of the head of the penis, the spongy resistance. He finally begins to suck, with just that in his mouth. Dean's cock jerks and more of his pre-come spills onto Castiel's tongue.

"C-can I come in your mouth?" Dean asks, face flushed and feverish. "A minute more of that and I won't be able to hold back."

Castiel sucks a moment longer, then pulls off long enough to nod.

"Oh," Dean says on an exhale.

Dean's right – Castiel sucks about a minute more, his jaw beginning to hurt, just the head of Dean's cock, and then Dean is lightly thrusting, his cock brushing up against Castiel's back teeth. Then his cock jerks again, hard, and come fills Castiel's mouth.

It tastes different than the pre-come, it's a lot stronger, and there's a lot more of it. Two, three pulses. Castiel pulls off, holding in for a moment before he can't anymore and he spits onto the floor, gagging. He looks up Dean, trying to hold back the urge to vomit – not because of the act, but because of the residual taste. "Sorry."

Dean is still panting. "Don't be." He scrambles to the floor and is swallowing Castiel's cock maybe thirty-seconds after he came, sucking like a man with a mission despite the awkward angle. He hefts and gently squeezes Castiel's balls, and then strokes in time to the bobbing of his head. It doesn't take long before Castiel is close to orgasm – he stayed hard throughout giving Dean a blowjob, which he finds telling – and then he's coming down Dean's throat.

Dean swallows, face content. He holds Castiel's dick in his mouth a moment longer, then rises up to kiss Castiel, deep and long.

"I have to ask," Dean says, licking his lips. "What prompted that? Not that I'm objecting, because that was absolutely amazing."

"Dean, are we lovers?"

Dean searches his face. "In my mind, we are. You're the only person I ever want in my bed, Cas. For the rest of my life."

Castiel nods slightly, relaxing. "That's why."

Dean silently helps Castiel to his feet, laughing a bit at Castiel's sore knees. When he lays Castiel in bed, he kisses the red spots, before running those kisses up his thighs, to his satisfied cock. Then he gets in bed with Castiel and brings the covers over them both. Castiel curls into Dean's body, like he does every night, but something about it seems more significant now.

He sleeps dreamlessly.

* * *

The next night, it's Castiel who wakes up hard.

He lays in the darkness, Dean lightly snoring in his ear. He slips one hand around himself, stroking lightly. This has almost never happened since Dean took him captive. Not that Castiel was like a teenager in his normal life, but in the beginning he'd been on constant stress from fear of rape or torture. Even later, after he came the conclusion Dean wasn't likely to do that, was the stress of planning escape attempts, and then the trauma of failure and the resulting beating while Dean physically subdued him. The stress of being on the constant edge of not knowing how much of his feelings are real. The inability to trust his own mind.

Why did Castiel initiate sex? Was it to be close to Dean in the only way he can think of? He spends almost every night curled up in Dean's arms, and yet at some point that wasn't enough. Of course it's natural and expected for anyone in his situation to crave comfort, even physical comfort from his captor, but then why willingly shift it into sexual activity? It wasn't to please Dean, or at least not solely to please Dean. It was to please himself. He knew Dean would do his best to give him a powerful orgasm.

He knew that he was rendering himself extremely vulnerable.

Is this part of surrender? Of giving up the constant mental goal of escape? Does the setting aside of that desire lead into this one?

He spoke to Dean of natural and synthetic happiness. He's already come to the conclusion that his best way forward – to maintain his emotional state in something besides depression – is to choose to be happy with Dean. To take all the happiness he's already felt and let it flourish, instead of being ashamed of it.

Sex is part of that. He knows he has intense shame attached to the act with Dean. And yet … why? What does that do for him? Nothing.

Even while Castiel fought him, Dean has given Castiel variations of happiness and joy. He doesn't know if he loves Dean, but his feelings of affection and protectiveness seem very real and very strong. He knows Dean's weakness, and all his pain – and there's mountains of that agony, years and years of trauma buried underneath what is actually an incredibly strong will to survive. His empathy with Dean is powerful. In some ways, maybe there is the possibility of love. Stockholm's Syndrome says that Dean has removed every other positive influence in his life, so of course he becomes attached to Dean. He's seen victims of serial killers show the same affection and protectiveness to their captors, after a prolonged period of captivity. Dean, of course, isn't a serial killer. Besides taking Castiel captive, he'd be considered a national – no, world-wide – hero, if the truth was known. He loves Castiel, both in a selfish and selfless way.

The problem is this: logically, Castiel knows that no one would consider his feelings for Dean real. But Castiel isn't sure that matters. If Castiel chooses it … if Castiel knows exactly what they are and yet still chooses it, then it's real enough.

He's not there yet. But he wasn't wrong when he despaired in that hallway a month ago and thought that he'd never escape, because eventually he wouldn't want to.

When Dean twitches himself awake and feels the bed moving with Castiel's strokes, he takes over, his rough hand incredibly good on Castiel's cock. A minute after Castiel comes, Dean's semen splashes across his lower back.

The next morning, Dean laughs and then groans when they're stuck together. If it wasn't so dirty, it'd be poetic.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN:** Updates will slow from here on, probably to once a week or so. Real life does take priority. ;) The next chapter will be absurdly long, however. So there's that.  
 **Warnings (spoilers!):** Dubious consent to sex.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

"I agree," Castiel says over breakfast. Waffles, again. Dean's on a grain kick.

Looking wary, fork poised over his untouched food, Dean asks, "To what?"

"Your idea. Taking a day to refill on supplies." Castiel eyes the table and spins his plate. "I should be locked in our room, I think. It will force me to remain calm."

"Okay," Dean says quietly. He puts his fork down and walks to Castiel, lying a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. No worries, you hear? Nothing wrong with needing a bit of help."

For a moment, Castiel thinks, _Help would be escaping from you._ That is still true. It's a perfectly true thought. And yet, it does him no good. Continuing on that mental path will just lead to frustration when he fails. That he's failed. Instead, he thinks about Dean's words. Yes. He does need help, regardless of the reason. "I'd like to be outside most of the day before."

"I'll make a picnic," Dean promises.

Castiel tilts his head. "You know, I never would have thought you'd be this way given how witnesses described you."

"Why?"

Castiel shrugs. "You have always portrayed yourself as extremely masculine. You took insults personally and were very sexually promiscuous. That doesn't easily connect with gestures that are generally perceived as sentimental, like picnics."

Dean frowns and then says finally, "I was always this person. Somewhere. I just didn't think I'd live long enough or have the chance to have a real relationship. It was easier and expected to go from girl to girl, so that's what I did."

Castiel smiles. Real? But he doesn't say it. "That makes sense."

"Did I ever tell you about Cassie?" Dean asks.

Castiel stares at him. "Cassie? My nickname?"

"No, she was a girl I dated. Years ago, while Sam was at college." Dean shifts uncomfortably, poking the waffle with his fork. "Ironic, I know. But she was the first person I ever really loved like that, and when I told her the truth … she freaked out on me, told me to go." Dean shrugs. "So that was that."

What could have been, if Dean had found a romantic partner willing and suited to his lifestyle. "I'm sorry."

Dean looks up and smiles. "It's all right. I have you."

* * *

These are the snapshots of Castiel's life.

* * *

Castiel is curled up against Dean, but facing the screen. Watching films with Dean is enjoyable, because Dean so thoroughly enjoys himself in the process of it all. Classic movies were like a lifeline for Dean's childhood. Whereas for Castiel, they represent the life he didn't live, the hours he spent every day with his family instead of being out and about, or having lots of friends.

In some ways, they are so very different. But Dean always makes Castiel smile at least once during a movie – shouting out a line as the character says it, or the hilarious faces he will make in reaction. Castiel loves that about him.

Had Castiel met Dean in a coffee shop, and Dean was someone normal, he'd have been a strong, close friend. Maybe one day Dean would kiss him, and Castiel would blush and scramble and insist he's not gay. Then Dean would convince him somehow – probably say something about dating being fun, and why can't Castiel give it a try? Dean will show him a good time, and ask nothing. Castiel would have been hard to sway, but sooner or later he'd have shrugged and given in. And Dean would have spent the entire time just doing nothing else but try to please Castiel. Stop at every request. Speed up at every sign of being wanted in return.

"Cas, you're staring at me," Dean says. "Do I have something on my face?"

"If I wasn't an FBI agent," Castiel asks, "how would you have romanced me?"

Dean pauses. "Dunno for sure. Um, bump into you in line for coffee. Maybe I'd tease you about your three spoons of cream." Dean smiles. "Take you out to dinner, as buds at first, 'cause you're straight, right? Sneak you into dates. Yeah."

Castiel smiles, somehow pleased it's slightly different from his version.

"Or," Dean says, pointing up in the air, "I'd have saved your life. That's always a good conversation starter when you're a hunter."

Castiel laughs. "That would have certainly gotten you past the front door."

Dean grins. "I love you, Cas." He grabs Castiel's hand and kisses it.

* * *

"What are you – Dean! Stop!"

Dean continues his ruthless tickling. "No no, Cas. After all this time I didn't know the bottom of your feet were ticklish – "

"A secret I planned to keep!" Castiel squirms.

Dean grabs one foot and holds on, squinting at Castiel. "I bet Balthazar knows."

Castiel kicks at Dean's hands and then manages to roll off the couch, breathing hard from laughing. He sighs, still smiling. "Balthazar knows everything that could possibly be considered embarrassing when it comes to Castiel Novak. It's his gift."

"I wish I could meet your family," Dean says.

There's a moment of disconnect where Castiel considers why that is. Then, "I'm sorry I can't meet yours." And he means it. He thinks he would have liked Sam Winchester.

* * *

Castiel frowns at Dean's cock. It's – large. It feels like Castiel's mouth isn't big enough to take it in very far, though Dean assures him it's possible, it just takes practice. But with his dick in Castiel's face, fully erect with pre-come dribbling out of the tip, that's difficult for Castiel to picture. So he licks the head a lot, licks down to Dean's balls. Dean moans and his thighs quake a little. Even the smallest things Castiel does turn Dean on an incredible amount, and in a way it's satisfying for Castiel to have such a huge effect on Dean.

He opens his mouth wider, letting the salty taste spread across his tongue as he moves down Dean's cock.

After, Dean tries to press a finger into Castiel's body, but Castiel tells him no. So instead Dean sucks Castiel's cock until Castiel comes all over Dean's face.

* * *

"Are you seriously suggesting you kidnap my brother? No. No, absolutely not."

"Temporarily!" Dean protests, holding up his hands. They're both in the doorway to the back entrance, watching it rain. Dean had brought it up for the first time in months. "Just for a little bit, then I'd let him go."

"I'm not sure I should even trust you to do that," Castiel replies, rubbing his eyes.

Dean looks insulted. "Look, he's not my soulmate, you are." He throws up his hands. "Okay, fine. Do you have any suggestions?"

"What about the friend who got you the phone?" Castiel asks.

He shakes his head. "She said that the method she used wouldn't work twice, and she couldn't guarantee they couldn't trace if she used another." He looks at Castiel. "I know you wouldn't be able to hear his reply, but I could send more letters."

In a way, Castiel is reluctant. He still feels shame at his capitulation. Would having contact it Castiel that's not verifiable be better or worse for Balthazar? "I'll think about it."

* * *

Dean is the big spoon, like he usually is. They've been in bed with the lights out for about fifteen minutes and Dean just won't settle. His constant fidgeting is keeping Castiel awake, and he did twice his usual exercise while Dean was on the phone, coordinating with other hunters about taking other hunts while Dean is vacationing, so he's ready to pass out.

"What is it?" Castiel asks sleepily.

Dean stills. "Nothing."

"Dean, you won't stop moving. Tell me what's wrong."

"I was just thinking. About where I'd be if you had gotten away." Dean breathes into the back of Castiel's neck. "I know it was so hard for you to fail, but I'm so glad you did."

Blinking in the dark idly, Castiel asks, "I'd think you'd be angry I tried for that long. And the times I physically fought you."

"Nah," Dean says immediately, relaxing into Castiel's back. "I was never really angry with you. Not about that."

Castiel snorts. "You're seriously telling me you weren't angry at my escape attempts?"

Dean sighs. "I mean, yeah. I was. But at the same time – I don't know who made you soulmate, Cas, but you're perfect. Fighting and beating me up and all." He kisses Castiel's back. "I want you to fight, Cas. I just don't want you to fight me."

Castiel's not sure why, but those words are comforting.

* * *

Late afternoon, the day before Dean leaves for his supply run plus surprise.

The area outside that Castiel has access to is just grass and brush, with some wildflowers because it's late summer. But it occurs to Castiel he could probably do something more interesting with the space. There's no easy way to get water out here as far as he knows, but he could talk to Dean about that. Maybe he could turn at least part of it into a garden. He has his rock to sit and meditate on, but he could create a larger space that's really his.

Dean likes the idea. "I'll figure out how to get a hose out here. Then you'll just need to tell me what you need."

Castiel nods and sits on the blanket Dean brought out. Dean begins to unpack the very old, decrepit basket that must be original to the bunker. He looks at the wrapped sandwiches and brownies and says, "Hael was the picnic master while we were growing up. She'd always have two blankets, one thin and big one, and then a big, fluffy one for on top, so we'd be comfortable even if there were gaps in the grass. And she always had everything – spoons, forks, knives. And a place for the dirty dishes. And the basket was a mastery of Tetris."

Dean laughs. "I'm sorry I'm not that good. I kind of pile things in. Sammy's bag was always a lot more organized than mine." He takes out two beers, handing Castiel one.

"Leaving tomorrow?" Castiel asks.

"Yeah. I'll leave early morning, right after you wake up. I'm going to move everything to our room tonight and I put the lock on the door while you were taking a shower." Surprisingly, the room didn't have one. Presumably because at first Castiel was physically chained, and later perhaps to prevent Castiel from taking an opportunity and locking Dean in.

Castiel sleeps deeply that night, and watches Dean leave in the morning, before a quiet click locks him in.

He waits for the panic. And it does come, but it's not overwhelming like Castiel had feared it would be. It's more like anxiety, in that he has the physical fight or flight response of increased breathing and heart-rate, like his body is trying to tell his mind he should be panicking. After a few minutes of inhaling and exhaling very slowly, he takes out a book and begins to read.

Dean left the clock in the room, but Castiel does his best not to look at it over the course of the day. By the third hour, he's mostly accomplished his goal. He does his usual limited-space exercises when he gets antsy, and then settles down with a history of ancient Egypt, but with magic.

Five hours in, Dean voice's echoes down the hall. "Cas? You okay?" The door unlocks and Dean peers through.

Castiel gets off the bed. "I'm all right."

Dean grins at him. "Want to see your surprise?"

When Castiel nods, Dean opens the door fully and then begins to walk back through the hallway, with Castiel following. He hears some odd noises coming from the kitchen, and slows, baffled. Dean slows with him and grabs him by the elbow, hurrying him along.

"You'll like it," Dean promises, and then pulls him up the stairs.

In the kitchen, there's a dog.

She or he is tied to the table by a cloth leash and sitting on the floor. She's not fully grown, her paws clearly too large for her body. Lighter, almost white fur surrounds her face and legs, as well as the tail; darker markings are on the rest of her body. Her fur is fairly thick and fluffy. She makes a curious sound when Castiel approaches her, tail thumping the floor.

This is the first time in a year Castiel's really been around another living thing besides Dean. At most, he'd seen wild birds and squirrels, and the occasional lizard darting around his sitting stone.

Dean whispers in his ear, "She's an Akita and Alaskan malamute mix. Pretty smart and very loyal."

Castiel hesitantly places a hand on her head. She pushes into that touch and then starts licking his hand. Castiel laughs, surprised, and then pets her again, running his fingers through her thick fur and scratching around her ears. Her eyes soften and aren't so wide when he does that, like she's relaxing. She stands up and presses into his leg with her body, a little awkwardly. "I've never owned a dog," he tells Dean.

"Me either," Dean says honestly. "Sam wanted to, but Dad would never allow it." He shrugs. "But she's all yours."

Castiel goes to his knees and she licks at his face. Maybe a year ago he'd have been offput, uncertain about what to do. But right now he's holding back tears as he looks into her intelligent eyes, as he sees her react to his presence. It's entirely unlike watching a film or tv show, to have someone actually respond to your presence. Castiel's gone days at a time without having another living being to talk to, one that will actually respond to his presence, even if it's only with barking or licking.

He wipes his eyes, laughing a little.

"Cas, are you okay?" Dean asks, sounding concerned.

Castiel nods, scratching her ears. "Her name is Aditi."

"Yeah?"

"It's Sanskrit," Castiel says, but stops there. He looks up. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean shrugs, perhaps blushing a bit. "Well, she's potty-trained to go on newspapers. You get to deal with that, though. Dean Winchester does not clean up poop."

Castiel laughs, fully this time. "Sometimes you're such a child, Dean."

He grins. "I know."

* * *

Aditi, as it turns out, is eight months old and while she's potty-trained to go on newspaper, the bunker initially confuses her. That results in Castiel having cleaning solution like bleach on hand for the first time since his capture. ("Oh my God, I am not cleaning that up," Dean says.) Castiel really doesn't find it that gross. He doesn't have close family with children, but he's interacted with small kids over the years, even a few infants here and there. He can change a diaper with the best of them.

"You have to go on the newspaper until you're fully trained to go outside," Castiel tells Aditi, who looks at him with soulful eyes. He's got more newspaper in hand, the old stuff that he's already gone through for hunts. "I don't want you running off where I can't reach you."

She licks his hand. A year ago, it would have been somewhat disgusting to have dog slobber on him. Now it's just comforting, which even to Castiel is a little odd.

"I know, it'll just take time until I can trust you," Castiel says, and then stops. It suddenly hits him that Dean more or less trained him like a dog to only go where Dean allowed it. His leash only loosened when he was obedient. He swallows down acid, and then shakes himself out of it, stroking Aditi's head. "You'll be able to go outside soon, I promise."

"I've never understood the appeal of talking to a dog," Dean says, catching the last bit as he stops at the doorway. Castiel chose an empty room to hold Aditi's waste. Dean's locked most of the place up while Csatiel trains her to follow his commands to come and to heel, but otherwise he's largely kept himself out of the dog training. "She doesn't understand a thing you say."

Castiel shrugs. "She understands emotion."

Dean leans against the door jam. "Yeah, I suppose that's true." He pauses. "You like her?"

Castiel gets up, having spread out the clean newspaper and disposed of the soiled ones. Aditi has already learned to walk by him with a simple snap of his fingers, and she comes to his side instantly. "I love her."

"Then I love her, too," Dean says, and lightly kisses Castiel. He gives Castiel a fond look. "I love it when you smile like that," he says, coming closer, until Castiel can feel the heat of his body. He touches the corners of Castiel's eyes, then runs his thumb along Castiel's lower lip. "You have laugh lines."

Castiel eyes him, and the words pop out as he thinks them: "Dean, why can't you let me go home?"

Dean's smile falters. "I can't lose you. You know that."

"What if we continued to see each other, even after? The FBI wouldn't have to know." And he doesn't just mean for sex, though they have that now regularly.

Dean stares at him, and although Castiel can see he wants to avert his eyes, he doesn't. He keeps his gaze steady. "Do you mean that? Honestly mean that?"

Castiel looks away.

"I know you don't love me, Cas. You care about me, and I will never stop being grateful for that, but you don't love me how I love you."

Castiel doesn't know if he's capable of loving in the way Dean is. He's not even sure it's a good thing to love as desperately as Dean does.

"You'd run," Dean whispers. "You still would. I see it in your eyes."

"I don't want to hurt you," Castiel says, finally looking up.

Dean nods, breathing deeply. "I know."

"Dean, I may not be able to fall in love with you like this. Not when being with you is against my will."

Dean says, "I'd never rape you –"

"I don't mean that. I mean, how can I love you when you're my captor? Really?" Castiel stares into Dean's eyes, noting the mossy green, the faint lines of gold. The shimmering that speaks of tears ready to fall. "Dean. What if I can never return your feelings like this? When in some way, I fear you?"

Dean's mouth opens and closes. "You fear me?" he asks at last.

"You would hurt me to keep me here. You have hurt me to keep me here. Dean, kidnapping someone to be your spouse is a sign that your mind isn't healthy. How do I know that you won't snap in some other way? Some way I can't even predict?"

"I'm not crazy," Dean retorts. "Not like that. I'm not. I went through the fucking apocalypse and hell and I came out relatively sane. I'm not – I'm not going to snap on you, Cas."

"Then never mind that. How am I supposed to –"

Dean cradles Castiel's face in his hands, half pleading and half forceful. "I'm sorry, Cas. I am, I'm sorry. But this is the only way. You're an FBI agent, you're legally bound to turn me in for crimes I didn't even commit and that I can't prove I didn't commit. If I had bumped into you at the coffee shop, you would have arrested me. And I don't blame you for that, but this is the way it is."

"But I know that now, Dean. I wouldn't turn you in."

Dean silently shakes his head, dropping his hands.

Castiel closes his eyes. "What if I can't love you, Dean? What do you do then? Keep me chained up here forever?"

"I don't believe that, Cas. You're my soulmate," Dean says quietly. "But even – even if that was true. I can't lose you. Not any of you, any part of you that you're willing to give."

Aditi whines.

Castiel doesn't know why, because nothing has changed, but he feels defeated. He rubs his eyes, scratches his head and covers his face, basically anything to avoid looking at Dean, who is still standing less than two feet away.

"Okay," Dean says, backing up. "How about I get Aditi some food? I've got like, another six bags in the car."

Castiel nods, petting Aditi's head, and listens to the fading sound of Dean's footsteps.

That night, Aditi sleeps at the foot of their bed. She shifts around a lot at first, walking around the room and sniffing everything, but after the fourth time Castiel gets up and has her go back to her bed, she finally settles down. For the first time, in addition to the sound of Dean breathing in his ear, he can hear someone else. She snuffles a few times, probably dreaming of chasing rabbits or something.

Dean intermittently pulls Castiel closer, like even in his sleep he wants to hold him close. He seems content with the way things are, even as Castiel struggles to cope and adapt. What Castiel said to him earlier was nothing but the truth. He doubts he's capable of loving Dean under these circumstances, at least in any real way. He needs Dean, that much is true – the sex is proof of that, proof of Castiel's need to be close to another human being, proof that he needs comfort and, to some degree, the caring that goes along with it.

Need is often portrayed as love, like when two lovers cannot stand to be apart. They need each other. And yet, a need that isn't reciprocated is considered unhealthy, even wrong. Dean fails that test, at least in the sense that while Castiel needs him now, he didn't need Dean when this whole thing began. And if he let Castiel go, Castiel would be fine. He thinks so, anyway.

So need is a part of romantic love, but how and where Castiel isn't sure.

Love, too, is the deep caring for another person. One who volunteers in devastated countries has a love for those people. A wife or husband who gives their spouse affection and care – that's love. Castiel loves some parts of Dean. He cares for Dean. He wants Dean to be happy, and yet his own desires conflict with that. So maybe it's both need and caring, both of which Castiel has in some way.

But if he doesn't have those by choice … Do you have to choose love to be in love? Is there choice to it, a logic?

This is making his head hurt.

"You're thinking too hard," Dean murmurs into the back of his neck.

"You think too little."

"Hmm," Dean says, then his hand snakes around Castiel's front to grip his cock. He strokes until Castiel is hard, then flips Castiel onto his back so he can go down on Castiel until he comes. Castiel does, biting his own hand to silence his cries of pleasure, even though Dean's the only one who can hear him. After, Castiel wraps his own hand around Dean's cock and then sucks Dean's dick until Dean's about to orgasm. Then he pulls off and finishes Dean with his palm, catching Dean's semen in his hand. There's a shuffle when they clean up, and then rearrange their limbs for sleeping.

Castiel's thoughts fade a little as his body reaches a deep relaxation, sated and warm. He still doesn't have an answer to all the questions he posed to himself, but for now, that's okay. He can sleep in Dean's arms and find comfort there.

* * *

Aditi becomes the perfect companion. She's easy to train, very obedient, and loves Castiel with all the worship dogs are capable of. She likes to nap with him, her head on his lap, though Dean draws the line firmly on letting her on the bed. Fortunately, it doesn't take much to dissuade her from that. In about a week, Castiel's trained her not to go far from where he can – she doesn't go into the library without him, for example, or any of the other areas that Dean doesn't normally have locked down while home. She responds to either her name or a sharp whistle.

She also makes Castiel feel more steady and less needy.

Castiel feels his own emotions begin to balance out, with less highs or lows. The depression that comes and goes lightens, though it still makes an appearance. Aditi gives him something external to focus on, both in training her and in taking care of her.

"I'm going to take her outside," Castiel tells Dean one morning. "Let her walk along my boundary with me."

He clicks his tongue and Aditi runs to his side. Dean follows, deliberately lagging behind.

Aditi gets excited when Castiel opens the door and runs out into the sunlight. Castiel watches her, smiling, as she leaps from spot to spot apparently for no reason except joy at being outside. After a few minutes – she doesn't go past his barrier – she returns to him and grabs his hand in her mouth to drag him from the doorway. He lets her for a few feet, then takes his hand away and commands her to stay by his side again. He circles his prison with her, finding peace in walking with her.

It's September now, so it's cooling off, but Aditi still sheds a little when Castiel pets her. Castiel reminds himself to ask Dean for a brush.

They spend the next couple of hours there. Castiel's skin begins to darken by the time he joins Dean inside. That night, Dean kisses along his tan lines.

* * *

Three hundred and thirty-nine days in, Dean sets pancakes in front of Castiel and asks, "How would you feel about some sparring?"

Castiel stares at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Dean, you've been able to prevent me escaping twice because you were able to beat me in hand to hand combat."

"Well, yeah," Dean says, scratching his head. "But that's not a problem now."

Castiel studies him a moment longer. Dean seems sincere. "All right."

Dean beams. "I'll go clear out a space."

Once Castiel finishes up breakfast, he goes to find Dean with Aditi faithfully following. In the end, Dean chose to clear up a large portion of the infirmary. Presumably the best place would be the firing range, but that would require Castiel's boundaries being changed again, and the infirmary is a lot larger than it needs to be for two people. Dean's moved desks, exam beds, and cabinets so a full third of the room is empty. Castiel has Aditi sit just outside, commandeering her, "Sit. Stay." He wants to teach her not to panic or react when they spar, if they do indeed spar after this. Then he enters the room.

Dean looks up and smiles at Castiel. "You ready? I thought we'd start out barefoot, go easy since we don't have mats."

Castiel nods, flexing his feet. "That makes sense."

Moving out to the middle of the space, Dean says, "Come on. Give it a go. I'm sure there's been times you've wanted to smack me in the face."

"What's the purpose of this, Dean?" Castiel asks, shifting his weight. He feels nervous.

"It'll make sense what we try it," Dean promises. He raises his fists in a defensive position. "C'mon, slow."

Castiel's attempts are half-hearted at first. He knows logically that Dean is asking to practice, not actually trying to beat him into submission, but his every experience with Dean like this has been traumatic. Each failure.

Dean seems to realize it, because he doesn't comment on it. He gives Castiel near total control of their speed.

They start slow, with easy attacks and easy blocks. But once Castiel relaxes into the rhythm – like he had done so often in law enforcement – and speed up, Castiel begins to see why Dean won their battles. In addition to his slightly larger size, he's also faster than Castiel is. It confuses Castiel for a few minutes, until he realizes that Dean is used to sparring with Sam – someone with both a larger reach and greater physical strength. So while Dean's by no means small, he's had to adapt like someone of a smaller stature and become faster, more deft in how he responds. He also bounces back into a balanced stance almost immediately, the sign of training to last through long fights.

Dean pauses repeatedly to comment on Castiel's style. It's mostly positive – Castiel's problems in comparison to Dean have more to do with the marriage of their styles, in that Castiel's weaknesses are Dean's strengths – but he does make good points about Castiel's balance. In all their fights, it was one where Dean repeatedly tried to knock Castiel off his feet, and once he accomplished that, Castiel lost the fight.

As law enforcement, Castiel's trained to subdue first and kill second, whereas Dean was taught the exact opposite. Castiel learns a lot about dirty fighting and how Dean thinks and positions during a fist fight. After about forty-five minutes, Castiel's able to adapt to the specific points of Dean's style and take him down two out of three bouts.

Dean laughs every time he does it. "Yeah, I knew you'd be a badass," Dean says. "You've just got to overcome that FBI training a bit, I think."

By the end, Dean has them transition to the hard floor. He has Castiel put him in holds and then shows how he was trained to break out of them. Dean's technique is a really random mix, some of which is standard to the military and some of which is similar to how mixed martial arts experts fight. Then they reverse it so Castiel is the one in some kind of submission hold. In some ways, it's an odd to have Dean's body so close to his when in the recent past, they've only been that close for sex. And violence, before that. And now Dean is here teaching Castiel how to get himself out of the techniques Dean used to keep him prisoner.

When Dean puts Castiel into a chokehold, the exact same one he used in Castiel's apartment, Castiel freezes for a second and then taps out.

Dean releases him immediately. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just give me a minute," Castiel says, taking the time to give himself a few feet between him and Dean. He meets Dean's worried eyes. "You remember the last time you used that on me?"

"What – oh," Dean says, looking genuinely contrite. "Shit, Cas, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Castiel takes a deep breath. "Show me how you'd break it."

"Are you sure?"

Castiel nods. "I'm sure."

Dean practices it with Castiel until Castiel can break it in less than a second. With each repetition, each success, some of that residual fear fades away.

After nearly two hours, Dean says, "Well, I think that's enough for today. I'm already aching." He rolls his shoulders and then offers Castiel his hand, and Castiel takes it.

Dean makes burgers for dinner. They eat outside, with Dean sneaking Aditi little pieces of meat and tomato. It's there, sitting next to Dean, that Castiel realizes some of that undertone of fear has faded. Yes, Dean is still his captor, but some of that uneasiness that Castiel has continued to feel around Dean has gone away. Meeting Dean in combat that is friendly and for teaching has begun to override his memories of being forced into submission. It hasn't disappeared by any means, but Castiel is able to let go of a lot more of it. He relaxes, smiles, and when Dean makes a bad joke about the flavor of meat, he laughs.

* * *

"No, no. Put your arm there," Dean says.

"Why?" Castiel asks, staring at the concrete floor. He knows that move would make him vulnerable.

Dean sighs and says, "Please?"

When Castiel listens, Dean flips Castiel on his back, tangling his legs in a way that is by no means any kind of attack or hold, and leans his upper body onto Castiel's so their faces are nearly touching. In the moment Castiel tries to decide how to respond, Dean kisses him.

But unlike usual, Dean doesn't bring it to sex immediately. Instead, he stays there on top of Castiel, just taking his time exploring Castiel's mouth. Testing Castiel's reactions with a few gentle bites, changing the angle of the kiss, before he finally moves from Castiel's mouth to his neck, sucking a hickey into existence. Castiel moans and runs his hands through Dean's hair as he becomes hard. He thrusts up into Dean's body, seeking friction.

Dean whispers into his ear, "I feel like I'm living in a porno."

Castiel laughs.

"Sexy martial arts turns into sexy … sex." Dean withdraws and frowns. "Okay, that line didn't work."

Castiel laughs harder.

Dean responds by rolling his hips into Castiel, who breaks off the laughter as pleasure rises. In a second, Dean's off of him and grabbing his sweatpants and underwear, poking at his hips until Castiel lifts up so Dean can slide his clothing down. Dean grins up at Castiel before taking his cock into his mouth, sucking hard. With his free hand, he grips the base of Castiel's dick and slides down until his mouth meets his hand, and then repeats, head bobbing. Once Castiel's full erect, he pulls off long enough to get two fingers thoroughly wet, green eyes glancing upward.

"Please?" Dean asks.

After a moment of hesitation, Castiel nods.

Dean goes back to sucking him off, but his free hand goes between Castiel's legs, searching for that clenched muscle. He circles it at first, which feels weird to Castiel, but then he pushes in with the tip of one finger. It still feels huge, but after a minute of Dean carefully stretching him open, Dean's able to fit another finger in. Then he goes right for Castiel's prostrate, stroking it with the same rhythm that his mouth moves on Castiel's cock.

In the position Castiel's in, there's no way for him to really reciprocate. He can't get Dean off directly, but he wants Dean to come. He wants to bring Dean pleasure.

So he lifts his legs, with one foot resting on Dean's shoulder. Dean moans on his cock with that action, like he always does when Castiel shows how much he wants Dean. He fucks Castiel with his fingers, like he would if he was fucking Castiel with his cock. The stretch, the burn, and the sensation of it is starting to become pleasurable, even when Dean isn't directly hitting his prostrate. It kind of feels like Dean is teaching him to like it, training his body to respond.

"Dean, I'm – I'm going to –"

Rather than finish, Dean lets Castiel's cock fall from his mouth and grabbing Castiel's hand, to put it on Castiel's cock. He shifts around so he's kneeling, his own red cock peeking out of his boxers and presses it against Castiel's crack, holding Castiel open and exposed with his hands. "Can you come like this?" Dean says, the head of his dick rubbing against that spot.

Castiel nods, stroking himself.

"I can't wait to fuck you," Dean says, thrusting into his own hand and against Castiel. "I've been dreaming about it for months, you holding yourself open for me and just taking it –"

Castiel comes, his ejaculate splattering his stomach. He doesn't know if it was Dean's words or just the physical stimulation, but past that his mind just stops working.

"Fuck," Dean says, "I can't wait to get my cock in you," and then he comes messily, biting his lip.

Castiel just lies there and pants, imagining that. Dean taking him that way. Logically he knows that act isn't really submission, not anymore that letting Dean come right against his ass. Not for the millions of men who perform it. But it seems to Castiel that if he lets Dean fuck him, that's pure submission to Dean's control over him. That every shred of Castiel that he's tried to hold back will be held open and bare. Dean will have taken everything from Castiel that there is to take.

Dean cleans them both up with his shirt, wiping Castiel down first and then himself. He looks sated and pleased.

Castiel sits up, the floor cold against his bare ass. "You want to fuck me?" he asks Dean.

Dean half-way freezes. Then he nods. "Yeah, I do."

Castiel considers that. "You ever like to be that one fucked?" he asks. "You ever, uh, bottom?"

"I have in the past," Dean says slowly, offering Castiel his hand to get up off the floor. "I don't like it as much that way, but I've done it." He smiles at Castiel, expression curious. When Castiel is standing, he leans in a bit. "Why? You want to fuck me?"

Castiel looks away and shrugs.

"I'd let you," Dean says, licking his lips. "If you let me. I'll make it good, I promise."

"I'll think about it," Castiel says, uncomfortable.

Dean nods, that teasing expression fading. "'Course. Whatever you want."

Castiel shivers. "I'm cold."

Dean leaps into action, as usual, and finds him a blanket. He keeps up chatter as he bundles Castiel up and then leads him into their den, before finding a movie to watch. Like most of the time when he catches Castiel being uncomfortable or uncertain, he's switched into caregiver mode. He becomes extremely attentive and finds anything and everything he can do to help Castiel through it. Dean wants to be the knight in shining armor.

Castiel loves that about him.

* * *

Castiel wakes up to Dean rubbing his feet. "What are you doing?" Castiel asks sleepily. Then he kicks when Dean hits a sensitive spot. "That tickles, quit it."

"But you're cute when you laugh," Dean says, smiling. His hair is a total mess, so he woke up recently. Castiel squints at him, and then lets loose an embarrassing noise when Dean digs a thumb into Castiel's arch. "Also when you moan."

Castiel lets him continue for a couple of minutes as his mind kicks into gear. When he finally sits up, Dean rises as if to go start breakfast.

"Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean turns around.

"Where does this go, in the ideal scenario for you?"

"You mean, like, what I want in my wildest dreams?"

Castiel nods.

Dean pauses and taps the doorframe. "Honestly, you hunting with me. On the road. Taking vacations in Mardi Gras, going to the beach in California and fucking at midnight. Showing you that hole in the wall with the best pie in that third of the United States." He's not looking at Castiel, and he has a wistful smile on his face. It fades when he finally meets Castiel's eyes. "So, yeah. That."

It's clear he doesn't think he's going to get it. Castiel can see that plain as day, and for some reason, it hurts. "If ..."

Dean waits.

"If you want that, you'll have to court me like anyone else would," Castiel says at last.

Dean begins to slowly smile. Big, wide. "Courting I can do." He hops, and then lunges forward to the bed to give Castiel a kiss. "That I can definitely do. Fuck, Cas. I don't know what to say."

Castiel gives him one kiss. "You'll have to figure it out."

"Fuck yeah!" Dean yells, and runs out of the room.

* * *

Dean is on cloud nine for two days. He spends them being an obnoxious sap, much to Castiel's amusement. The resulting laughter is even worth the sense that he's surrendering by caring for Dean so much, that he's weak for wanting Dean to be happy. That he's weak for wanting happiness for himself, even if it's not one he chose. But Dean is totally focusing on pleasing Castiel and seems oblivious to any reservation on Castiel's part – he wakes him up with breakfast in bed, gives more footrubs, and generally tries to anticipate Castiel's every need, even to the point of finding Aditi dog toys proactively.

It occurs to Castiel that Dean has been courting him for a long time.

He also talks about the future for the first time. "I'd have to introduce you to Baby properly. Teach you how to listen to her purr – I mean, if you're driving at all, you've got to know when there's something wrong." And, "There's this pizza place in California that invented the BBQ pizza, did you know that? It's really freaking awesome, you'll have to try it." Even, "I can't wait to take you to the beach. I've got one in mind, it's just this tiny one and it's all surrounded by farmland, so there's no one there. Sam and I spent the night on the beach, and didn't see another soul."

But on day three, Castiel sees the change the moment he walks into the kitchen. "Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean puts his cell phone on the countertop, well out of reach of Castiel still. He's not quite that unwary yet. His expression is dark, and he's frowning. "I think – I think there's a hunt I need to take care of. This buddy of mine, he can't do it alone. It's too dangerous, he's afraid he'd buy the farm if he tried to take it on alone."

Aditi, attuned to Castiel, comes up to him and noses at his hand. Castiel swallows and then nods. "You should go."

"Cas, I made you a promise," Dean says, leaning against the counter and rubbing his bottom lip.

"I know. But you're a hunter, Dean. That'll never change. And I have Aditi now," Castiel assures him. "I think I'll be fine."

Dean comes up to him and kisses him lightly, fingertips testing Castiel's day-old stubble. "Are you sure? I'll be gone two days, three max. It's not far off."

Castiel smiles a little. "Yes, I'm certain."

* * *

Dean's been gone four days before Castiel admits to himself that he's worried. "Dean's just late. The hunt probably went a little sideways and he has to stay longer," Castiel tells Aditi. He's pacing outside, watching the sun move across the sky as Dean fails to appear.

Aditi whines, tilting her head and generally looking skeptical.

"It'll be fine," he assures Aditi. "It will."

Day five, he wakes up and has breakfast. He runs with Aditi. He goes through the next set of newspapers and finds another possible hunt on the east coast, in New York. He puts together a list of possible monster suspects, the work soothing because it reminds him so strongly of profiling, of doing investigative work. After that, he runs with Aditi again and then has dinner. He tells himself that either Dean comes back or Dean's contingency plan comes into play. Either way, he'll be fine. Physically.

Day six, he admits to her, "Something has gone wrong. What if – what if –"

It's not until day seven he can say it. "What if Dean's dead?"

Dean can't be dead. He just, he just can't be. Castiel tries to wrap his mind around the idea of it and the ramifications, but it seems to wriggle out of his grasp. Someone would come here, and release Castiel. He knows that. He would get to leave and see Balthazar and rejoin the FBI. He could be an FBI agent again. He doesn't doubt the BAU and Balthazar are still looking for him, that they would welcome him home with open arms. As much as Dean has made Castiel's life center around him, Castiel's life would go on even if Dean died.

But he doesn't want Dean dead. The thought of it makes his chest hurt and his throat tighten and his pulse race. In the few times Castiel has dreamed of a life outside of the bunker since his last escape attempt, Dean was always there somewhere. Running around the country doing hunts, maybe sending Castiel postcards. Maybe visiting Castiel. Maybe even trying to find Castiel and bring him back.

But never dead.

"I can't lose him," Castiel says to Aditi. "Dean doesn't deserve to die like this." He doesn't even know what 'like this' is, but at the same time he doesn't doubt its unfairness.

He sits outside and watches the sun set, breathing deeply.

He's acting like he's lost the love of his life. He's panicking like he has. "I don't love Dean," he tells Aditi, who sits next to him, thick fur rustling in the wind. "I don't think I do," he adds uncertainly. "What do you think?"

Aditi looks at him as if to say, Why are you asking me?

"Of course, you're a dog. It's easy for you." Castiel squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm losing my fucking mind."

Day eight (day three hundred and fifty-nine), Castiel admits to himself that his feelings for Dean have progressed beyond simply caring. Does he love Dean? Is that why he already feels this sense of loss, and he doesn't even know if Dean's just delayed yet? No, he's not going to call it love, not the kind that lasts a century, but it's definitely more than he would feel for a friend. It's like his world is on the verge of ending. And in a sense, that's even true – he'd go back to his life, but his life without Dean seems incomplete.

He curls up with Aditi and cries into her fur.

* * *

Day nine, he's teaching Aditi to open the fridge from a distance when he hears the front door. Castiel clicks his tongue so that Aditi returns to him, and then calls out, "Dean?"

Dean comes down the stairs. He looks absolutely exhausted, and he's got a swollen lip and a spectacular bruise across one eye.

"Dean, what happened?" Castiel demands.

Dean comes up to him and hugs him, wordlessly and powerfully. He holds onto Castiel like Castiel will disappear if he doesn't, and doesn't begin to relax until Castiel lets himself fall into the embrace. He lets Dean take comfort from him. "Hey," Dean says at last, releasing him enough to look Castiel in the face.

"Dean." Castiel touches Dean's face, just skirting the bruises. He lets the question hang.

"It's all right, I kind of deserved one of those," Dean says. "Cas, I was captured by the FBI."


	9. Chapter 9

**AN** : I think a lot of people thought this chapter would be from Dean's perspective and – no. It's actually from the perspective of various agents in the FBI, Castiel's teammates in the BAU. There will be a Dean POV chapter at some point down the line, but not yet! I really wanted to get a proper outside perspective on the situation, and Dean isn't capable of that.

That said, this chapter drove me NUTS. Trying to write competent, well-educated FBI agents is HARD. I must give major kudos to the writers of Criminal Minds, because it's a lot harder than it looks. That said, I love having the FBI analyze the fucked up mentality of the Winchesters, and in that respect I had a total blast writing this. I hope you guys enjoy it just as much.

Let's commence 18k of psychoanalyzing Dean!

 **Warnings (spoilers!)** : Completely non-graphic discussion of rape.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

FBI Agent Derek Morgan knocks on Castiel Novak's door, a coffee cup in hand. But rather than remain steady, rather than hear Castiel shouting, 'Coming!' like the other times Morgan has picked him up when Castiel's old car failed to start, the door gently swings open.

Every instinct on alert, Morgan puts the coffee down in the hall and draws his weapon. "Castiel?" he calls out and pushes the door open the rest of the way. Castiel's apartment has always been fairly empty, with only the practical and necessary items. A little table by the doorway has a wicker basket Morgan knows Castiel's brother got him, and in it are Castiel's keys. Beyond that is the living room, which opens into the kitchen.

A table and lamp have been knocked over in the living room, near the couch. The fridge door is open.

"FBI!" Morgan shouts. He clears the living room, kitchen, the bedroom and the spare. He checks all the closets, but there's no one home. When he circles back to the kitchen, he sees small shards of broken glass on the floor, surrounded by some unidentified liquid that is half-dried. There's no blood or any other sign of struggle. The food in the fridge is no longer cool and is basically room temperature. He gets out his cell phone and dials. "Hotch, we're going to need a forensics team at Castiel's apartment. It looks like he was taken by an unknown subject."

* * *

The entire team assembles in their conference room, but only because they don't have a location to travel to and search.

Morgan is crackling with his usual restrained intensity, probably wishing he had visited Castiel over the weekend for drinks like he'd planned. Both of he and Castiel had started out in the police force, so they had a lot of job history in common. Hotchner eyes him, but although Morgan is by far the most hot-headed of the team, he's gone into a place of intense focus instead of anger.

JJ and Reid are openly worried, but they retain their professional demeanor. JJ because she had to keep her composure with families of victims for years, when being communications liaison was her only job and she wasn't profiling. Spencer Reid (they still introduce him as Dr. Reid, because he was only twenty-six when he joined the BAU) is wrapped up in his thinking, putting that incredibly powerful mind to work.

Rossi is lost in thought, probably going through possible profiles in his head – although he left the FBI for several years to write very successful novels about serial killers, he lost none of his edge.

Hotchner doesn't relax – he doesn't ever entirely relax – but it gives him some surety that they'll work through this to see his team working this like a case. Instead, he does his best to exude confidence, as he does every time one of his team members is in danger. Castiel has been missing for at least three days; they're already way behind what he'd like them to be for an abduction. Any abduction, much less a friend's.

Hotchner speaks first. "The FBI kidnapping team has been informed and a negotiation team is waiting in Baltahzar's home for a ransom call. They are assuming for the time being that this kidnapping is motivated by the desire to take a federal agent, either for information or ransom. Their team will cover the ransom angle, and will handle any negotiation that's needed. I want us to focus on what information Castiel could have that the unsub could want, the possibility that this is specifically aimed at Castiel or is a revenge kidnapping, and the possibility that this is a predatory kidnapping."

"You really think a predatory kidnapping is likely when an FBI agent is involved?" Morgan asks. "Plus when you're talking about an adult, the vast majority of those are committed against women."

"Ninety-four percent," Reid says quietly, pulling the statistic from his near-perfect memory.

Morgan continues, "And an agent is not an easy target, and unsubs who take victims like that rarely choose ones that can fight back."

"It's still an angle we have to pursue," Rossi says. "Taking a man that most would consider powerful could be part of the unsub's thrill."

Morgan flicks a pen. "If it is predatory, the unsub could have been stalking him. We should talk to neighbors and check security cameras over the past several weeks to see if there's any strangers consistently in the area."

"I'll do the latter," Penelope Garcia says, sounding grateful to have something to do. She's their tech analyst, full of color, life and an incredible understanding of computers and databases. "I've scanned every security camera in a five mile radius and didn't find Castiel or, you know, anyone carrying a … body." Her lips look pale under her bright pink lipstick, but she rallies. "I've started going through all the license plates that were in the area in the last week and comparing them to stolen vehicles or criminal records, but no hits yet."

"I'll take the former," JJ says, tucking her blond hair behind an ear.

Reid half raises a hand. "I'll take Castiel's old case files and see what classified information he could have, or any cases where the people involved would have a motive to take him."

Rossi nods. "I'll assist JJ and talk to Castiel's family, see if there's any way there's a personal motivation from an ex, or a family member."

"I'll look at recently released parolees, help Reid look over Castiel's previous cases, and assist anyone else where needed," Morgan finishes.

Hotchner asks, "What was found at the crime scene?"

Garcia looks up, shuffling and reshuffling her papers. "Well, forensics came in. There's no sign of DNA in the apartment besides Castiel's, and no fingerprints. The liquid was Propofol, and probably from a broken needle."

"The unsub used a general anesthesia?" Reid asks.

"Or intended to," Morgan says. He frowns, pointing at the crime scene photos. "Looks like Castiel put up a fight, and he may not have had a backup dose. The unsub may have had to change his plans and subdue Castiel physically. He was probably in the apartment when Castiel got home and surprised him when he was grabbing dinner from the refrigerator. He may not have been able to clean up for fear the struggle was heard."

"Motivation could be almost anything, from that description," Rossi says. "We need to narrow this down and get a profile."

Garcia adds, "And I'll chase down reports of stolen Propofol. Maybe we can find this sucker that way."

Hotchner looks at all of them, one by one. "While we're running down suspects, let's keep in mind what possibilities are most likely for our unsub. He's most likely into his late twenties to early forties, white, unassuming. He might have military training, if he was able to physically subdue a trained federal agent, and he may have done this before."

Everyone looks back at him, ready to begin.

"Let's get to work."

* * *

Over the next twenty-four hours, a complete examination of the crime scene is done and Castiel's immediate history is thoroughly dissected. No fingerprints or DNA was picked up at Castiel's apartment, so his attacker was gloved and careful. He may have even recently showered and scrubbed his skin to avoid leaving any trace of his presence. A wider investigation of the surrounding area doesn't tell them much more. Castiel's apartment building doesn't have security cameras, and one across the street didn't catch anything. Castiel's spending habits were normal and he showed no awareness of stalking, if in fact there was stalking. He didn't sound worried about anyone and wasn't under any unusual stress. He hadn't received threats to any of his emails or phone numbers.

No ransom call has been made. JJ reported to Hotchner that Balthazar was steadily becoming more and more emotionally unstable.

Hotchner calls them in for a meeting the next morning. "Reid?" he asks.

"I've gone through fifteen years of cases," Reid says. "My eyes are about to fall out, but I can tell you that the only people in Castiel's past that would do anything like this would be more likely to kill him, execution style, than take him prisoner. I can't rule out a certain mob family, but I also have no evidence to support their involvement. I've asked the task force in charge of their case to keep an eye out."

"You think it's unlikely to be a revenge kidnapping specifically directed at Castiel, then?" Hotchner asks.

Reid nods. "Yeah, I do."

Garcia picks up where Reid left off. "I looked everywhere and didn't find anything weird on any security cameras. I even hacked private networks, nothing! I don't even know what to look for."

"We'll narrow it down," Rossi assures her. "It's not his family or exes. His relationship with his family is distant but friendly, and the same is true of all his previous romantic relationships."

"I only found one odd thing," JJ says, "from this morning, right before I came in. All of Castiel's other neighbors reported nothing, but an old lady who claims to be a psychic said she got bad vibes the other day and kept checking the window. The important thing is that she lives right above Castiel and said she kept seeing an old, black muscle car in the parking lot, around thirty to forty years old. The driver was a male, but she didn't get a good look at him. She said she was certain he wasn't a resident. Garcia?"

"On it," Garcia says, pulling up her laptop. "Muscle cars from the fifties to the seventies. Searching over the past week in a five mile radius. I've already got all the cameras and search functions going, so – there we go." She types rapidly and then a grainy image pops up on the conference screen. "Seen seven times over the course of a week in that general area."

It's a black, '67 Chevy Impala.

"Is that it?" Garcia asks.

Morgan sits up. "Wait, doesn't Dean Winchester drive that model?"

Hotchner says quietly, "Castiel was convinced Winchester was hanging around and watching us in Wyoming."

Garcia says what everyone is thinking, horror in her voice. "Castiel got taken by a serial killer?"

"Garcia, I need you to find that car," Hotchner orders immediately. "Winchester travels across the entire continental United States, so you're going to have to look everywhere. The license plates are probably changed regularly, but the car itself won't. Winchester has proven he will go into police lockups for that car; he won't abandon it now. Morgan, Reid and JJ get Winchester's file and go over every detail for any clues as to his home base. I know we profiled he didn't have one, but if he took Castiel than he took him somewhere Winchester thinks is private and safe. Even a general area of the country would help. Rossi, I want you to work with me on Winchester's profile."

By twos and threes they split up. Hotchner watches them go, until only Rossi is left.

Rossi asks it quietly: "Hotch, do you think he's dead?"

"I refuse to operate as if that's likely," Hotchner states flatly. Castiel is a relatively recent addition to the team, but he's smart and motivated, and he would know what he needed to do in order to convince Winchester to keep him alive. "Winchester is a delusional, mission oriented killer who thinks he's helping people. Could Castiel be part of some psychotic belief on Winchester's part?"

"Possibly. Though what I can't imagine."

Winchester's file is a foot thick. They have gobs of information, but little connection between facts. Winchester's crimes were so varied and motivation varied so widely that he didn't fit any expected model from a serial killer. And yet, he wasn't entirely driven by psychosis either, though that might be a part of his crimes. Unlike most delusional killers that have no standard MO or developing signature, Winchester is highly functional in normal society. So how much of his crimes are really because he believes someone was possessed by a demon (or whatever monster it was that week) and how much were opportunistic that he merely blamed on demons is a complete unknown. "I agree. It could be nearly anything, assuming Winchester is really experiencing psychosis and isn't faking that as a possible defense."

Rossi frowns. "Winchester's always shown a great deal of self-awareness. The Baltimore tape shows that pretty clearly. He might be delusional, but he's also aware of how his delusions look to the outside world."

"That doesn't necessarily narrow it."

"I know," Rossi says. "This is mostly a gut feeling, and I might be wrong, but from the sheer variety of his crimes and his insistence on his delusions being real I think that he does genuinely believe what he says about his murders." Rossi takes a fifth of Winchester's file (the physical copy is just the past two years) and flips through it. "You think he will de-evolve now that he's taken Castiel?"

"He hasn't in ten years," Hotchner says. "No. Dean Winchester took Castiel for a very specific reason and he will follow that plan to the death. He's not going to lose it now."

"He's going to do his best to disappear," Rossi says. "Complete the plan in private, whatever it may be. I don't think this is about the FBI directly – he's too careful to stay away from law enforcement, and he's never taunted us. It's either a revenge kidnapping or some private psychosis."

"If it's revenge, why Castiel? He's only been on the team a year, and while we've been called in a few times on Winchester cases over the years, Castiel was only present for Cheyenne."

"Easiest target?" Rossi guesses.

"Someone with Winchester's background would probably choose JJ, just because she's a woman, if vulnerability was key," Hotchner disagrees. He pauses. "JJ is married, however. Castiel lives alone and has no nearby family." It grates on him to say it, but, "It did take us three days to realize he was missing. That gave Winchester plenty of time to get away."

"What about the brother? We theorized that Sam is dead because he hasn't been seen in two years, even during crimes that Winchester would have needed him, but could we be wrong?" Rossi asks.

That's intriguing. "What if Sam was the trigger? Winchester's never kidnapped law enforcement before. Could Sam's death have caused a mental breakdown, resulting in a revenge kidnapping? They were incredibly co-dependent and were never seen apart since Dean took Sam from college."

"I think you're onto something. We should ask Garcia to look for Sam Winchester's body, as a secondary goal," Rossi suggests. "How and when he died might have effected Winchester's motivation and reasoning for this kidnapping. And if it is a revenge kidnapping, we have a limited about of time to find Castiel. The chances that Winchester will kill him in a short amount of time go way up."

Hotchner nods. "Finding his home base quickly will be key."

"What do you think of the possibility of this being a predatory kidnapping?"

"Winchester has given every appearance of heterosexuality. If it was a predatory kidnapping, that would be a huge break from his previous behavior."

"You mean like every other crime?" Rossi asks dryly.

Hotchner just frowns. "Honestly, I don't know which one would be worse." He looks into the distance. "If it was predatory, Castiel would live longer. But the degree of torture or sexual assault with Winchester's background …"

"We'll find him, Hotch," Rossi says. He's one of the few that Hotchner ever lets see any weakness, and one of the few to have worked this job as long as Hotchner has. And he knows exactly what Hotchner is thinking, and fearing – because he has the same fears. They've both worked cases like this too many times to have much hope that Castiel would get out unscathed. Or out at all.

Hotchner lets out a breath. "I think that Winchester's past may be what we need to figure out where he is now. Such a transient childhood meant that he had a very unstable idea of what a home is, and he continued that pattern as an adult. It's probably why he's so attached to the car."

"It was his father's," Rossi agrees. "If Winchester's only real home, besides his vehicle, is the house his father and mother raised him until the fire … do you think he's in Lawrence, somewhere?"

"Or somewhere close by," Hotcher says. He thinks for several long moments; his next words will determine the course of this case in the short term, and it's in the short term that Castiel's life is on the line. Winchester is going to kill Castiel soon. "We'll focus on Kansas."

* * *

What follows is a thorough examination of not only Dean Winchester himself, but also his father and brother, who are the primary influences on his life. The temporary homes that John Winchester chose are analyzed and local residents spoken to – even old teachers and old neighbors, in an attempt to find out if either of the Winchesters' ever considered somewhere besides Lawrence their home. Because while Hotchner thinks he's right, he can't depend on that. He has to have a few people working on the opposing theory; their profile just isn't concrete enough.

Local law enforcement is given a report and profile on Dean and asked to keep an eye out. The news is notified, though Winchester's name is not released. They're worried that he'll kill Castiel quicker if he becomes aware that his identity has been compromised.

None of the teachers in the various public schools the team tracked down remember Dean; none of the neighbors remember Sam. Those teachers that remembered Sam spoke of him as highly intelligent, but having troubles at home. There's indications Sam wanted to escape his family and have 'a safe life,' as one put it, which is a very telling comment. But all of them that had any idea about his home life said Sam never considered any of the places he was as a true home or having any kind of permanence. The Winchester family always moved somewhere with the intention of leaving.

Dean's background is more eclectic. Owners of Winchester's rental homes/apartments described Dean as the primary caregiver. He paid the rent, did the dishes and laundry, hustled for money for Sam, and got into fights. To all appearances, Dean considered their temporary homes as even less important than Sam.

In the end, it all winds back to Lawrence.

"But the geographic nature of Winchester's crimes don't support Kansas," Reid argues. He's got deep circles under his eyes and a mess of paperwork in front of him, and that's only counting the ones he brought into the conference room. Everyone looks equally as harried; it's been five days since Castiel disappeared. Hotchner is watching his team's professionalism slowly begin to crack. "He'll go clear across the country to find some imaginary monster and kill it."

"Kansas is centrally located; if he was stopping at a home base, would we even know?" JJ replies.

Garcia is the phone, still huddled at her computer and running searches and programs instead of physically attending the meeting. "Analysis of his crime scenes doesn't give me any solid result. He's all over the place."

"We're assuming he's internally motivated," Morgan says. "That he chooses his next victims based on some criteria that he's chosen ahead of time. What if he looks for areas that he can use to support his own belief in his psychosis? He could be choosing places that already seem to have stories of monsters and then applying that to his delusions."

"That doesn't help us figure out where he is!" Reid snaps, rubbing his eyes.

"Reid –" Morgan begins.

"We're all frustrated," Hotchner interrupts. "Stay focused."

"Give something, some lead – come on, guys. I've started searching abandoned homes and homes under assumed names that don't check out, but there's tens of thousands of suspicious results. I need _something_ ," Garcia begs.

"Get rid of any results that are in urban areas," Reid suggests.

"That's a guess," Morgan says darkly.

"It's more likely that he'll be careful and not want people around for the killing," Reid answers, irritated.

"Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick," Garcia says over the phone. There's a long pause. "Running the search with narrowed parameters," she says really quietly.

It makes everyone pause. This isn't some random case. This is Castiel, the guy who brought donuts in every morning even though he despised most kinds of donuts. The one who joined their case because he was an anti-terrorism taskforce, and blew them out of the water with his determination, skill, and insight. Had there not been an opening, Castiel wouldn't have been invited to the BAU, but at the time Hotchner thought it was kismet. And over the course of the year, Castiel had continued to be an asset on cases.

He didn't know Castiel like he knew Morgan, JJ, Reid, Rossi or Garcia. Castiel rarely spoke of his home life or his family. He knew Balthazar worried and that Castiel's parents had cut him off, but he didn't know the details of why. Castiel was in many ways still waiting to settle in, to truly relax and consider his teammates partners and support structures. Castiel lived in his head, and rarely left it; in a way, only Reid really understood Castiel.

And now Castiel's life is in extreme danger, and they're hopelessly trying to catch up.

"Keep looking," Hotchner says at last. "We're not giving up."

* * *

"We've worked this for a solid two weeks," Hotchner says on a Wednesday. His team stares back at him, sleep deprived and desperate. "This isn't the end, but I'm getting pressure to start taking other cases again. The assistant director offered to put a small team on Castiel's case while we wait for more information."

* * *

Six weeks later, Hotchner gets a call at five in the morning. "Agent whatever your name is, you need to get here _right fucking now_!" Balthazar Novak shouts. "I got a letter from Castiel. It's got – I don't know, but it has his name on it. It's not his handwriting but the envelope says 'Castiel Novak' and there's a fucking date on it from two weeks ago. I haven't opened it, but oh my God."

"Don't touch it. Wherever it is, leave it alone. It has forensic evidence that might lead to Castiel's location," Hotchner orders. "Do you understand?"

"Yeah." Balthazar breathes into the phone. "Fuck. I thought he was dead."

Hotchner can't tell him the truth: privately, never spoken out loud, so did he. "Did the letter arrive in the mail?"

"Yeah, I got it – I wasn't sleeping, and they come really early here. It was in my mailbox."

"Does it have a postmark?" Hotchner asks.

There's a pause. "Yeah."

"I'm going to call the FBI office in Texas, they're going to come to your home, collect the letter and analyze it. Just in case, I want you to lock all your doors and call the police after I hang up. Tell them you think there's a prowler. Stay inside until the FBI agents arrive and give you their names and badge numbers."

Balthazar splutters. "You think I'm in danger?"

"I think that's unlikely, especially given there's a postmark, but it's possible the letter was hand-delivered. In that case, just lock the doors. Balthazar, you did well. Keep calm. Help is on the way."

As soon as Hotchner hangs up on Balthazar, he calls the local FBI and gives them a rundown plus orders, then he calls the local law enforcement in Balthazar's hometown in Texas, plus its neighboring cities, and has them start searching for Winchester and his very distinctive '67 Impala. It's a faint hope, but Hotchner is going to seize it anyway. Then he calls the rest of the team.

By seven, he's in the office. Crime scene technicians, having heard this is an in-house case regarding an FBI agent, have worked quickly – they already have the letter thoroughly examined. The postmark is from Albuquerque, New Mexico. There's no fingerprints on the envelope, but the letter itself has Castiel's prints. They're relatively recent, and the handwriting inside matches Castiel's.

He's alive.

By fifteen minutes after eight, everyone else has arrived and they're staring at a digital copy of the envelope and letter. Castiel's name is listed in the from portion, with a date of two weeks ago next to it in parentheses. It's a really an odd detail, like the kidnapper wants them to know Castiel was alive as of that date. The from address itself is listed as 3764 Highway 51 South, Memphis, Tennessee. It's not in Castiel's handwriting.

"Graceland," Reid says. "Elvis Presley's house. Though that's the original address, not the current one. That fits in with Winchester's obsession with his father's pop culture and using it in his aliases."

"Here's the letter," Hotchner says, pulling it on the screen. Garcia is in her office, coordinating with Texas's efforts to find Winchester.

Reid immediately leans in and says, "Castiel definitely wrote this, and I'm betting it wasn't under full coercion."

Morgan has an 'I'll bite' expression on his face. "How do you know that?"

"The first letter of every sentence in the first paragraph spells out Dean Winchester. The second spells Midwest." Reid looks at Hotchner. "He's telling us who has him and where. Winchester probably told him to say he went willingly and that he's fine, but he didn't give him exact language to use."

"We were right. He's probably being held in Kansas somewhere," Morgan says. He says the next words with both a restrained joy and shock. "He's _alive_."

"This – this radically changes our profile," Rossi says, latching onto something completely different. "We thought this was a revenge kidnapping, but letting your prisoner write a letter to his brother – that's a completely different psychology. Not to mention actually sending it!"

It's like Dean Winchester is screwing with them all again, like he has on every other crime they've tried to catch him for.

"So is Castiel okay?" Garcia asks over the phone.

"It's hard to say at this point, baby girl," Morgan says. "But I think we agree that he's alive."

JJ nods, then says for Garcia's sake, "I can only imagine Winchester sent this letter because he, in some way, cares about what Castiel thinks of him. A pure psychopath might have let him write the letter in return for some favor, but he wouldn't have sent it because Castiel doubtless has no way of checking of that."

"Oh God," Garcia whispers. "Good."

"Garcia, can you start checking the surrounding areas of where the letter received the postmark for Winchester's car?" Hotchner asks.

"On it."

"We'll let you know when we have more information for you," Hotchner says, and ends the call.

"It's probably best Garcia doesn't hear this part yet," Morgan agrees, the excitement on his face fading as he considers the specifics of the profile they're going to have to create. The motivation behind the kidnapping. "This isn't going to be a pleasant profile to break into specifics."

Because while murder is a horrific crime, and the murders the BAU investigates generally even more so, Hotchner knows that rape has an equally emotional response from friends and families of the victims, because it's ongoing suffering akin to torture. Garcia will have to hear the profile, of course, to help her assist them in turn. But it's probably best that the details aren't discussed in front of her. She's an analyst, not a field agent.

"We should start by examining the letter and seeing what else Castiel is able to tell us," Rossi says.

 _Dear Balthazar,_

 _Everything is all right. All that's happened is that I went somewhere for a while. Nothing bad has happened, and I haven't been hurt. While I know this seems to have come out of nowhere, I've been thinking about going away and taking a break for a long time. I'm doing well where I am – I'm well fed and I'm finally getting as much sleep as you always said I should. Now, I know this is a little late, but take care of my apartment, will you? Can't lose that good of a lease. Hael's letters must be piling up, please take care of them, too. Even after everything, I want to read them. Save anything our parents send. The FBI has probably fired me by now for taking off so suddenly, but don't worry about that – I'm okay. Really, I'm doing well._

 _Michael always said we should take the time in our lives to really live. I'm doing what he wanted, finally. Don't worry about me. While you're a bit of an asshole sometimes, I'll always love you. Even after you stole my first girlfriend. Stay in Texas, be happy. Til then,_

 _Castiel._

"I think … I think Castiel _is_ trying to tell us he's all right," Reid says slowly. "If Winchester left him enough wriggle room to leave a message, that repetition probably wasn't necessary. He keeps emphasizing it, and he even talks about coming home. Do we know if the girlfriend stealing is a real incident?"

"I'll find out," JJ says. She's been Balthazar's link, for the most part, during the last eight weeks. Hotchner was secondary to her. Since she spent several years dealing with family members and the press before becoming a full profiler, Balthazar has always responded the best to her presence. He'd spent three weeks here, living in Castiel's apartment once they released it, desperate for news of his brother.

"He could be trying to tell us that he intends on escaping," Rossi says. "We should Kansas police that they might see someone of Castiel's description. See if we can't connect any odd cases they have to Castiel possibly having a partial escape attempt."

Morgan points at the letter, then looks at JJ. "Can you also have Balthazar tell us if the letter sounds like Castiel? I know he'd have to change his phrasing in order to hide the message, but maybe he could tell us if there's anything else odd."

Hotchner nods. "I'll have the local FBI office give him a copy and sit on him while he reads it."

Rossi frowns at the screen. "So a predatory kidnapping, or a delusion?" he asks, referencing their next step: building a profile to help narrow things for Garcia.

"Either, or a combination of both," Hotchner replies. "But I think we should assume that even if Winchester has some delusion that prompted the kidnapping, that he will be internally consistent in carrying out his beliefs."

They work through the portions of the profile that remain the same: Winchester was probably triggered in some way by the death of his brother to take Castiel. He's probably taken him to a remote location somewhere in the state of Kansas. The rest changes along with Winchester's apparent motivation. Revenge is no longer likely, because if that was the case Castiel would be dead by now. Assuming that the letter isn't a fake, and Hotchner doesn't think it is, then it's probable Winchester intends to keep him long term.

They start with the sending of the letter.

"The dating in particular suggests he wants us to know Castiel's still alive," Reid says. "It's possible he's taunting us for our failure to find him and Castiel."

"He's never done that before," Morgan says. "Not that that helps much when it comes to Winchester."

Rossi turns to Hotchner. "That first day, you suggested this might be a predatory kidnapping. Winchester has no homosexual leanings to our knowledge, but that might be irrelevant if Castiel was taken because he was powerful, and not in spite of it. Some of Winchester's crimes have been sadistic or sexual. Could this be Winchester evolving past doing things only with the excuse of a delusion? He could be embracing his darker desires instead of routing them through belief in the supernatural."

They bounce the idea back and forth. It could definitely fit with Winchester's known psychology. Half-way through, they get notified that Balthazar has read the letter and wants to talk. JJ gets him on the phone, and after some hysterical sobbing, Balthazar admits that despite the odd wording it does sound like Castiel. The girlfriend stealing incident is real, and Castiel used to make reference it in regards to how much he loved Balthazar, because Castiel actually let it go and allowed them to date with no infighting. In some ways, Castiel and Balthazar had used it to reference how strong their relationship was.

It's a comfort, in other words. A way of saying, _I love you._

That tilts the discussion. "Maybe this isn't about taunting us at all. If he wanted us hurting and angry, this letter isn't the way to do that. Maybe this is about Balthazar," Morgan says. "Do you think Castiel could have convinced Winchester to send the letter not to taunt us, but to offer some kind of comfort to Balthazar?"

"Winchester would have to care about Castiel for that to be the case," JJ says. "Do you think he's capable of that kind of empathy?"

Rossi looks up. "Castiel is Balthazar's younger brother. We said Sam triggered this … perhaps Castiel isn't meant to be a victim at all. At least not in Dean's mind. Maybe he's meant to be another companion for Dean, a replacement for Sam."

"But why Castiel?" JJ asks.

There's a short silence.

"I hate to say he's just crazy, but if the shoe fits …" Rossi says, shrugging. "Winchester's delusions are so varied it could be almost anything."

Hotchner looks at the letter again. "He's an intimacy seeking stalker. The letter is an attempt at pleasing the person he perceives as his loved one."

"Castiel has to be trying to wriggle out another message," Morgan says. "He knows how to manipulate someone with that psychology better than anyone."

More silence.

Rossi breaks it. "That means that Winchester is as we speak trying to break Castiel down or otherwise manipulate him into going along with some delusional belief they're in love or in some kind of relationship. He must have started with just stalking, but because of his prior experience in stalking and then killing victims, he was good enough not to get caught. Once his delusions progressed to a certain point, kidnapping Castiel must have seemed like a good idea."

"But the attack in Castiel's apartment was planned. He knew that Castiel would resist," Reid says.

"Contradictions are something Winchester doesn't seem to have a problem with," Rossi reminds him. "He could easily contort Castiel's resistance into some supernatural reason. Hotcher, I think it fits with what we currently know. Even if we can't connect all the pieces yet, it fits the best of any profile we've come up with."

"If that's true," Reid begins, "than this isn't going to be the last we hear from Winchester or Castiel. Messages are going to continue in some form."

"And we need to prepare for that," Hotchner finishes.

They split off. Reid goes to help set up a trace on Balthazar's phone that will be constant, so they can both intercept or listen to a phone call and then trace it to its origin. (Once they get permission, of course. Hotchner expects that part to be the easiest.) Rossi sets up passive, unmanned surveillance in case Winchester ever tries to physically drop something off at Balthazar's. JJ, Morgan and Hotchner work on the adjusted profile and brainstorm how it could help them narrow Garcia's search for Winchester's location.

In the end, it's going to come down to a thorough search of records. The part of the profile that says Winchester is in Kansas is still in play, but now it's about a very long term home base. Remote enough he can keep Castiel undetected, and something he was able to buy without much oversight. It's possible he got a place from distant family member, though they agree its unlikely Winchester would make that kind of mistake – too traceable. He likely bought the place with cash.

Garcia begins to make calls to get any records not available in a public database. Hotchner overhears her once, talking with Morgan. For the first time in two months she sounds excited and hopeful. He wants to match that hope, but some missing detail is niggling at his mind. They're missing something, he just doesn't know what.

Although Rossi could write several books on Dean Winchester, the profile they intend to present to the Kansas police and surrounding states is brief.

 _Dean Winchester kidnapped Castiel Novak on October 10, 2014, from Stafford, Virginia. The kidnapping is motivated by an intense desire to have Novak as a companion, since the loss of his previous partner, Sam Winchester, who is believed to be deceased as of 2012. It is very unlikely he will ever give up Novak willingly, because he perceives Novak to be his intended or fated lover. It is also unlikely he will have Novak with him, but if Winchester is tipped off to police notification, he will abandon everything except his vehicle and Novak. It is critical that backup is called before apprehension is attempted. Streets and highways should be shut down if a confirmed sighting occurs._

 _In addition to the kidnapping of Castiel Novak, Winchester commits serial murder, and has done so since at least 2005, and possibly as early as 2001, with his father (now deceased). There is always a psychotic element to the crime – he may believe that a victim is demon-possessed, or some supernatural creature he has to kill. Winchester often commits murders in specific, bizarre ways because he believes those elements are required to actually kill his victim. Other times he will claim to be the only one capable of killing the true murderer of his own victims, making himself a hero in his own mind. It is likely that after a brief period of not committing these crimes, Winchester will return to committing serial murders._

 _He is superficially charming and will attempt to use this charm to get out of dangerous situations. If this fails, he will move onto escape by force. Winchester has a long history of violent crime, including murder, rape, and torture. Backup should be obtained before attempting to take him into custody, as he has caused serious injury to law enforcement personnel. If taken in, serious efforts should be made to keep him under armed guard at all times, even when alone in a locked cell, as he has proven he is very capable of escaping from jail._

 _Winchester is believed to operate out of Kansas. He drives a black, 1967 Chevy Impala. Although the plates will vary, Winchester will not abandon this vehicle. Though he does not have a military background, many of his skills and behaviors match or exceed that level of knowledge. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous._

Days pass. Then weeks.

Garcia sets up a program that will tell them if Balthazar ever receives a phone call that cannot be traced. Everything else is traced automatically and stored. She also figures out how to give Hotchner access to that call, if she notices the ping fast enough to transfer it to him. If Winchester slips up or Castiel is able to get out a call for help somehow, they want to be the first to know.

Reid declares the letter otherwise devoid of secret messages.

As exciting as the letter is, that's where the case dies again. The profile goes out to law enforcement and every news organization they can find are informed of Castiel's kidnapping. Winchester's face is plastered everywhere, but no one sees him. The few reported sightings they do get are quickly debunked. It's like Winchester is a ghost. Despite the fact that the profile strongly suggests he's in Kansas, they can find no proof of that. Once again, he's disappeared.

The case goes cold.

* * *

Click. "Bossman, linking you to a call from Castiel in three seconds. I have the transcript and he said the not-duress/listening word."

Hotchner nearly jolts out of his seat in the plane, and waits for the call to transfer, holding up his hand to stop the rest of the team's chatter. "Castiel, this is Hotchner. We're tracing this call. I'm going to go through a list of locations. I want to give me a yes when I say where you are." He expects an affirmative.

Instead, Castiel's voice is teary and frustrated. "I can't. I know I'm crazy, but I can't tell you where I am because you would capture Dean." There's the faint sound of a sob. "I want to go home, but you can't hurt Dean. He's not, he's not what we thought."

Not what the team profiled? "Did he kidnap you specifically?"

An unsteady breath. "Yes. You don't need to worry about anyone else on the team. I swear, I'm okay, Hotch."

Emotionally distressed. Refusing to help locate Winchester while giving the correct duress words. Castiel's not suffered the past six months well. "Castiel. Hold out. We're coming for you." There's a pause and a click.

Garcia comes on the line. "Sorry, that was it, tracing tracing tracing – oh no. No. No no no no. It's bouncing all over the place."

By now, the entire team is tensed and staring at Hotchner, waiting for him to speak, desperate hope in their eyes.

"No, you little slippery bastard, you're not getting away from me," Garcia snarls at her computer. "I will – no. Hotch, I – I'm so sorry. I don't even know to say, I'm so sorry. I can't trace it. It ended up in India and I lost it. Someone who knew what they were doing set this up." She sounds teary.

"It's all right, Garcia. You did the best you could. See if you can find anything else about the call and email me the sound file," Hotchner says.

Sounding shaky, she responds, "Will do, boss." And hangs up.

JJ drops back into her seat. "We didn't find him."

Hotchner shakes his head. "No, but we've got work to do."

* * *

With an hour left of flight time, Garcia gives them the recording and then sets to other methods of tracing the call. The call itself is fairly short, but they listen twice before commenting.

" _Bal?_ " Castiel sounds like he can barely get out Balthazar's name.

 _"Oh God, Castiel? Cassie? Holy shit, where are you?"_

Castiel takes a shaky breath. _"It's so good to hear your voice."_

 _"Cassie, can you talk?"_

"Yes. But I'm not alone."

Balthazar replies immediately, sounding frantic as he asks a trigger phrase, _"Are you well?"_

And Castiel replies, _"I'm okay. Balthazar, I'm okay. I haven't been hurt."_

"Where are you? Can you tell me where you are?"

"No. Balthazar –"

"Did Dean Winchester take you?"

Balthazar asks. _"God, Cassie, the FBI has been looking for you everywhere. I've been out of my fucking mind. Hotchner said Winchester took you, has he hurt you? Are you in danger?"_

"Dean has me, yes. He cares about me. He l-loves me. Bal, he let me call you to tell you that I'm okay. Honestly, I'm – I'm well fed, I have a memory foam mattress for God's sake. He hasn't hurt me. I don't want you to worry."

At that point, Hotchner entered the call. One reply echoes in Hotchner's head: _"I can't. I know I'm crazy, but I can't tell you where I am because you would capture Dean. I want to go home, but you can't hurt Dean. He's not, he's not what we thought."_

"He didn't use his duress word," Reid comments first.

"That doesn't mean he wasn't under duress," Morgan points out. "Or he could be not capable of telling when he's under duress."

Reid nods. "Fair point. But is it possible that Castiel is telling the truth about being treated well? At least as far as he can? He seemed very focused on making sure his brother wasn't worrying, to the extent of giving details of his life. A memory-foam mattress is really specific and he wouldn't have thought of that spur of the moment."

"It could have been a line fed to him by Winchester," Morgan suggests. "Honestly, I know we all respect Castiel here, but we need to be clear – regardless of the reason, he's no longer going to cooperate with being rescued."

"Adult victims of long-term captivity are considerably less likely to develop Stockholm Syndrome," Reid says thoughtfully. "But it's not impossible. He was very careful not to say any variation of 'I'm fine,' even when it would have been natural to use that phrasing. That indicates he was choosing it consciously, at least."

"Let's break it down," Hotchner says. "He called his brother. When Balthazar delivered the trigger phrase, Castiel answered him directly without any attempt at hiding it from his captor."

"Could indicate a degree of trust in Winchester," Morgan suggests. "That Winchester won't hurt him for saying the wrong thing."

Rossi says, "Or Winchester knew we would prep Balthazar and planned accordingly."

"He was very insistent that he wasn't being hurt," Rossi says. "Do you think he was telling the truth, or that Winchester told him to say that?"

"Punishment could be a relative thing, at this point." Reid frowns. "Victims of kidnapping who do develop Stockholm Syndrome often excuse their captors' actions, to the point of saying they deserved to be abused."

"'Honestly, I'm – I'm well fed, I have a memory foam mattress for God's sake. He hasn't hurt me.' Do you think that's factual?" Rossi asks.

"Not to sound callous, but I'm not sure it matters to what we do here." There's no anger in Morgan's tone, or his expression. He's removing himself emotionally, trying to be professional. There's always been that kind of strength to Morgan. " At this point, we can only follow Winchester and hope to catch him before Winchester gives in to some other psychosis and kills him."

"Patty Hearst said that her captivity and switch of allegiance felt like brainwashing, and that she had lost her free will. And that it took two weeks for her to begin to return to normal," Reid remarks. "If the same is true of Castiel, we may have to arrest him or hold him with a long-term psych hold."

"Perhaps," Hotchner says. "But I agree with Morgan, that doesn't matter at this point. Not in how we do our jobs."

It sounds cold. In a certain way, it is. But Hotchner knows, from the past cases with team members – Reid being taken by an unsub for two days, for example, or when Prentiss's past came into play – that this is the best way to resolve the situation. They're a good team. If they work like one, they can save Castiel.

"You know," Reid begins, "this does us one thing. Or one possible thing. I think Winchester is trying to win Castiel over. Winchester has been shown in the past to be incredibly convincing, to the point of getting family members to turn on each other. I think he is feeding Castiel, giving him a good bed. Because this isn't about predating on Castiel."

"Winchester doesn't want a victim," Hotchner says heavily. "He wants a partner."

"Castiel would never join him in a partnership," Morgan states. "Castiel might be unbalanced, but I don't think he would ever reach a point where he could commit the kinds of murders that Winchester does."

"I agree," Hotchner says. "The question is, will Winchester reach such a point of frustration he will harm or kill Castiel, or will he continue to hold him prisoner?"

"After six months? I'm betting on the latter," Rossi says. "For that matter, all of this could be Castiel attempting to survive, even not using his duress words."

Hotchner leans back and thinks about that. What has this changed about their profile? Next to nothing. It tells them more about Castiel's state of mind, and knowing he may resist capture or fail to take an opportunity to escape is useful information, but actually finding where Winchester is holding him – there's no new information.

"Our profile hasn't changed," Hotchner says at last. "Or our mission."

Morgan nods in agreement, and as Hotchner looks at each of his team members, they all do the same.

* * *

It's midnight, and most of the team is asleep on the plane, coming back from a case in Utah. Rossi is snoring lightly, no doubt something his many ex-wives complained about, and Morgan manages to look put together even while passed out with a seat pushed all the way back. Only Reid, Hotchner and JJ are awake. Garcia went home from the office hours ago. It was a good case – they solved it, and that's one of the few things that keeps Hotchner sleeping at night. Castiel is gone, and he can't be replaced, but they're still moving forward and saving lives. That's important.

JJ, sitting down and going over Winchester's recent spate of crimes, comes up with the idea: "What if we preemptively found situations that Winchester would take advantage of? In combination with crime analysis? He's obsessed with supernatural stuff, right? He could be finding situations online and then taking over by killing anyone he perceives as not being human."

Hotchner sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Wait. Has Winchester been spotted anywhere on the east or west coast in the past six months?"

Reid, with his perfect memory, slowly shakes his head. "No. Nothing even close to confirmed, anyway."

"He's staying close to home," Hotchner says slowly. "That narrows down the possible list of targets significantly. JJ, can you follow this up and find some cases? We can alert local police of Winchester's possible presence."

JJ nods. "Sure."

A five minute conversation. That's all it takes.

* * *

Two months later, they get a call while helping a DA with prosecuting one of their cases.

Dean Winchester was captured in Arizona by the local police force, who had been alerted by the team he might be there five days previous. He was found unconscious on an unused road and taken to the hospital, where an officer recognized him from the profile the team sent out. He attempted to escape and was able to do so long enough to ditch his phone, but he was otherwise found with his whole arsenal. The car is still being searched for. The police are following all the suggested procedures for preventing escape, and are confident they can hold him.

"If we can break Dean," Morgan says, "we can rescue Castiel."

"Wheels up in an hour," Hotchner says.

With the hum of their jet as the only background noise, they come up with a plan.

Dean Winchester kidnapped Castiel in order to make Castiel his partner, a replacement for his brother. He has the psychology of an intimacy seeking stalker, and in all likelihood holds the delusion that not only is Castiel his lover and partner, but that Castiel always returned Dean's feelings and intentions. He may even believe that there was no kidnapping, and Castiel's attempts at resistance were probably suppressed. The delusion that Castiel went with Dean willingly is what they must break.

Because if they can break Dean's belief and trust in his one last important thing in the world – Castiel – they can break Dean. And if they break Dean, they can find Castiel.

"I'll do it," Morgan says. He still feels partially responsible for how long it took them to realize Castiel was missing. It's not logical, and he knows that, but that feeling of obligation has never gone away.

JJ nods, and then adds, "If he fails, I think I should try. Winchester has shown a softness for women, and I look like his mother. I can take the sympathetic route, especially if the first bridge is burned."

"I agree," Morgan says.

"So do I," Hotchner says. "Morgan, go over Winchester's file and prep. JJ, you do the same. Rossi, coordinate with the local office and make sure Winchester doesn't slip through the cracks like he has all the other times we got this close. Reid, I want you to help Garcia backtrack where Winchester has been."

Two hours later, they land. Morgan has spent that entire time going over Dean's history. And he does think of him as Dean, now. In order to get into Dean's head, he needs to view him as not the sick fuck who kidnapped Castiel, but as a whole and complete person. That will allow him to adapt as needed depending on Dean reacts to his questions. His entire approach has to be based on Dean's psychological needs, and he can't let anger get in the way. He knows JJ has done something very similar, tailored to use Dean's complicated relationship with women.

Dean is being held in the city jail, guarded by three officers 24/7. The Arizona FBI office should be sending an additional two agents to help them hold Dean.

Hotchner decides none of them should see Dean before the first attempt, so they watch on security cameras as Dean is brought to an interrogation room, a video camera already set up inside. When informed of his right not to speak, Dean had only shrugged, so for now they can interrogate him. Dean is chained up securely, hands to hands and feet to feet. It probably looks like overkill, with Dean's affable smile and calm demeanor, but Morgan knows it's not.

Hotchner pauses before the doorway, looking Morgan in the eye. "He may try to bait you. Don't fall for it."

"I know what my mission is, and Dean Winchester isn't it," Morgan says.

Hotchner nods. "Good luck."

Morgan walks in and slaps the folder on the table and sits down, all before looking at Dean. Dean responds by raising an eyebrow and glancing down at the folder, which is out of his chained reach. When he looks up, he smirks a bit. It's about what Morgan expected from watching the Baltimore tape of Dean's last proper interrogation. He watches Dean for a full minute, taking his time. Noting all the little twitches, the sigh Dean gives while he waits for Morgan to begin, the almost-eye roll. Dean still feels in control. He feels secure.

"How is Castiel?" Morgan asks.

Dean hesitates out of surprise, barely perceptible in the way his eyes widen. "Good. He's good."

"How was he on October 10th, 2014?"

Dean's smirk falls. "Well, that's specific."

Morgan shrugs and opens his hands. "Can you answer the question?"

"I don't see the point," Dean says, but his shrug this time is forced. He clearly knows the significance of the date. He drums his fingers on the table.

"Did he scream for help? Struggle?"

The smirk is gone now. Dean doesn't like to be reminded of this, which supports the idea that Dean believes Castiel loves and loved him in return, prompting the kidnapping. "I –"

Morgan expects, _I don't know what you mean._

"I didn't like doing it," Dean says at last.

There's that unusual self-awareness again. Morgan needs to be careful here, still apply pressure. "How many times has he tried to escape you? Did you beat him for those attempts? Is that what you do, Dean? Hurt those you love?"

"Fuck you!" It seems automatic. Then Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, I know you think I'm some psycho killer, but I'd never hurt Cas."

Morgan keeps his tone matter of fact with a bit of a exasperated edge, like Dean is a recalcitrant child. "You don't love Castiel, and Castiel doesn't love you, Dean. I know him a lot better than you do, and he'd never feel that for you."

"You don't know that," Dean says, but there's uncertainty in his eyes. He looks away, like he knows he's lying. "He cares about me. I know he does." Dean stiffens up, adds, "I know you think I'm full of bullshit, but this isn't what you think it is. I'm not – look. I'm not abusing Cas. He's _fine_."

"You know what I think, Dean? I think that you decided for some delusional reason that Castiel loved you, and that you loved him – so you snuck up on him in his apartment, beat him and bashed his head in, threw him in your trunk, and took him home so you could rape him. So you could pretend it was all about love when really you want to dominate and control Castiel. That's what this is about, Dean. It's about your fucked up need to replace your brother. Were you screwing him, too?"

"Fuck you, you piece of fucking shit," Dean snarls, half rising out of his seat, but he's chained to the table so the motion is halted.

Morgan doesn't stop. "This is about him, right? Sam? You know, I have to wonder if he died so he could get away from you. He didn't love you, he was just your killing partner. And Castiel doesn't love you either, he's just your victim. Isn't he?"

"You're full of shit –"

"Am I? Then tell me, Dean, where have you kept Castiel prisoner? Should I be asking if he's in the back plot?"

Dean is shaking his head vigorously. "No, no –"

"Is this what your father taught you? That to keep someone, you take them away from the people who really love them?" Morgan pauses. "Is that how you kept Sam? Did you murder Jess?"

"I loved Sam, you sick fuck!"

"You're not escaping this time, Dean. You've pissed off the entirety of the FBI by taking Castiel. You're going to federal prison and you're staying there until you croak. Your only hope of not getting the death penalty is to tell me what I want to know. And let's face it, Dean. Even if you ever did get out, what would you go back to? To someone who fights you to escape? To someone you torture and rape into supposedly _caring_ for you?" The derision on that word is as strong as Morgan make it. He scoffs. "We're not living in your sick fantasy anymore, Dean. You do know that Castiel doesn't love you, don't you?"

Dean breathes hard.

"I know what you're thinking, Dean. You're not special. Right now you're going through it all in your head. Every interaction that you thought was love? That wasn't. That was, at best, a kidnapping victim trying to please his captor. You're alone in this world. You are _absolutely_ alone."

Dean shakes his head. "Shut up."

"Castiel doesn't love you, Sam and your father left you. I've got the reports," Morgan slaps his hand on the thick folder, "you were separate from them both for years. They didn't want you. They didn't need you, did they? Not like how you needed them. And now they're dead and gone, and quite frankly probably happier for it."

"I –" Dean squeezes his eyes closed.

"This is the story of your life, Dean. And all of it is about how Dean Winchester tries to hold onto people who don't want him. And when you can't cope with people leaving, you kill. Hell, even while they're around, you're killing. You know what that tells me, Dean? It tells me that no matter how hard you tried, you've failed to actually make want people to be near you. Castiel's just the latest in a long line, isn't he? But the thing is, you're not going to get what you want, no matter how hard you try. Because there's nothing there for them to love. To give a shit for. Is there?"

"You –" Dean stops, but his eyes are shiny. Morgan hit home there, at least partially. "You don't know me," but it comes out weak.

"You've been telling law enforcement for years you just want to save people. All you've got left, Dean, is to tell me where Castiel is. You've got bodies left behind you. You've got nothing else. Nothing, Dean."

There's a long silence. Morgan lets it elongate, lets it go. He waits for that silence to work on Dean, for Dean's own mind to trick him. Waiting for that fragile façade of Dean's strength to shatter, because for all of the horrific crimes Dean's done, he's ultimately done it out of a place of weakness, both psychological and emotional. He suffered abuse by his father and broke. Morgan needs him to break again, for Castiel's sake.

Dean's hands clench and then he says, slow and even, "I know what I did. I kidnapped Castiel, and he didn't love me. He still doesn't. I chained him up and couldn't give him a pair of scissors, because I knew what he'd do with it. I know what I've done, Agent Whoever. Don't you try to fucking tell _me_ what I've done."

Morgan watches him, and understands. What Morgan said had a huge emotional effect on Dean, but not the one he wanted – Dean isn't delusional about Castiel. He didn't hit Dean's weak point – not quite. He's failed; they miscalculated. It's like a blow, but all he does is grit his teeth as Dean speaks.

"But you're wrong," Dean says. "I love Cas, I really do. Just having him near me – that's enough. I'm happy with that. And I will spend the rest of my life making him happy. I will get out of here and go back to him, and hold him in my arms and love him. And your bullshit story doesn't change any of that. So. Fuck. Off."

Morgan has two choices: try to readjust, or withdraw. He wants to do neither. He wants to go in and beat the shit out of Dean, and beat the Castiel's location out of him. But he can't do that. He knows he can't, even if it would work, which he doubts it would at this point. "You're not getting out of here, Dean. These four walls are your new best friend. I'll personally make sure of that."

There's a knock at the door.

Dean leans in. "Daddy want to tell you that you did a bad job?"

Hotchner opens the door and gestures for Morgan to follow, expression blank. Morgan adjusts the folder so it's out of Dean's reach again. Let him think about what's in there; it can't hurt, wherever they decide to go. He debates whether he should say something to retain some kind of control, and then decides to leave the field open for JJ. He gets up and walks to the door without answering, and leaves.

"Hotch –" Morgan begins.

Hotchner just shakes his head, dismissing the explanation. "That result was likely," Hotchner says. "Patrol found Dean's car. They did a brief search and found a camera that appears to have pictures of a dark-haired man on it."

"Castiel?"

"They're bringing it here, we'll know in ten minutes."

Morgan nods. "I'll call Garcia and see if she can't find anything from the photos."

Ten minutes, two 'baby girl's' and an uplink later, the team assembles in a conference room while Dean Winchester continues to sit alone in interrogation. Morgan does his best to slip on his professional mindset, the one that's served him well for more than a decade on the BAU.

The first, earliest-dated photo shocks them into silence. It's Castiel, sleeping or unconscious on a bed, still wearing the slacks and dress shirt he was last seen in. His suit jacket is gone and he's shoeless, but the part that immediately draws their attention is the heavy, metal cuff on his right ankle. An equally heavy chain is connected to it, with the chain's slack off the bed and out of the photo. At first it looks like a shadow, but Morgan realizes that Castiel's throat is indeed that color – he's got a huge, long bruise on his throat, and it's had several days to develop into a dark smear.

It makes Morgan feel sick. He leans back in his chair, taking a deep breath. He's seen so much worse and so often, but it's quite another for it to be a friend.

There's no sign of it being posed. The photo, given the lighting and slight blur, was taken hastily.

The second has Castiel sitting up on the same bed, some kind of very old book in hand. It's been taken through a doorway, so there's only a sliver of Castiel, but Morgan does see the chain trailing off the bed to the floor. There's no sign he knows the picture is being taken.

That characterizes the next third of the sixty-eight photos.

It's always Castiel. After the first span of forty days, he appears without a chain at the same time there's the first signs of physical abuse. He's curled up on a chair, in one case, or sitting at what looks like a kitchen table with a kitchen counter behind it. His face is all cut up and bruised, like he took a pretty severe beating, but over the course of five images they can see them slowly healing up without any new additions.

"How is he being restrained?" Reid asks.

Morgan is the one to see it. "Look at his ankle," he says, grabbing the laptop that's displaying the images and going backwards. "He's got some kind of ankle cuff on. I'm betting it's got some kind of GPS, maybe even a shock mechanism or something similar."

"Dean's good with his hands," Reid agrees. "And Castiel is too dangerous to be left unbound like that without some kind of restraint."

Several months in, Castiel appears all bruised up again. This time, he also looks sick. His skin is pale and there's dark shadows under his eyes, and something about how he holds himself suggests that there's more severe injuries that they can't see.

"Well, now we have proof that Dean's lying," Morgan says, trying to repress his anger and think about how they could use this. "He kept insisting he wasn't abusing Castiel."

"I'll use it," JJ says.

On Castiel's birthday, six months into his captivity, they see Castiel look at the camera for the first time. He's sitting at the now familiar kitchen table, an absolutely ridiculous pancake in front of him. He's giving the camera a bemused look. Morgan knows this day, of course. This is the day Dean let him call Balthazar. Even at the time, they'd thought it was likely a birthday present, but this confirms that. There's one picture of Castiel in front of a cake, with four candles lit.

Now that Castiel is aware of the camera, Dean seems determined to capture any moment of Castiel smiling or laughing. There's nearly two dozen photos like that, nothing but random smiles or smirks. Even blurry photos are kept, if Castiel is laughing. There's an oddness to those images – Morgan knows what Castiel looks like laughing. Balthazar even gave them a photo album of Castiel, so the team would remember Castiel as he was. And there's not really any reservation in these, nothing that really tells Morgan that they're posed or forced. Castiel doesn't use any kind of duress signal, and Morgan knows he's familiar with the military versions used in coerced photo ops.

It's horrifying, yet interesting.

At around eight months, after a month-long break from any images, they see Castiel bruised again. Now, though, they're mostly healing. He looks tired. Depressed. Morgan can clearly see that he's losing weight. Dean only manages to capture the faintest of smiles.

But it picks up again. Castiel seems to recover, physically and emotionally.

One of the last photos, dated only a few weeks ago, is of Castiel in bed, sleeping. He's nude, though the picture is tasteful – it doesn't show anything except Castiel's bare hip, and he's mostly wrapped in a blanket. He looks healthy, but Morgan feels nauseous. It's a pretty clear indication that Dean has been raping Castiel, as they'd feared – as they'd profiled he would.

Garcia is still on the phone. "There's also a short video that I haven't seen and frankly I'm not sure if I want to see."

"It's all right, baby girl. Just let it roll, we'll let you know if you should see it."

"Okay," Garcia says, still fairly chirpy. "Rolling."

The video begins.

Castiel is sitting on a couch, feet pulled up. On his ankle is a hint of gleaming metal, the cuff they saw in some of the photos. In his lap is a rather large dog, its head lying on his thigh. With one hand he pets the dog, and with the other he reads an old, dusty book. He's frowning at it, that familiar frown that says Castiel is thinking hard about something.

 _"Hey,_ " Winchester's voice comes slightly distorted and loud from being so close to the microphone.

Castiel glances up, expression calmly bored; there's no hint of fear at all. Then he does a double take. _"More evidence of kidnapping?"_ He squints, looking at the camera more carefully. _"Are you recording me?"_ he asks, disbelief clear.

 _"Hey! You're cute when you're all focused,"_ Winchester objects. _"I wanted to get that little finger-tapping motion for the history books."_

Castiel rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. _"Well, stop."_

 _"But I don't want to,"_ Winchester says, the camera dipping and weaving for a second.

Castiel reaches over the side of the couch and returns with a battered stuffed animal. It's a zebra, and it's clearly been chewed.

 _"Oh no –"_ Winchester begins.

Castiel throws it at Winchester. The camera rolls around wildly and there's the sound of a dog barking, and faintly in the background, Castiel is laughing. It sounds like the time Morgan and Garcia took Castiel out to a karaoke bar and got him drunk. He sounds – happy.

Dean says, voice almost whining, _"Oh, come on. Did you really have to sic the dog on me?"_

The video ends there.

"Well," Rossi ventures at last. "That's certainly not what I expected to see."

"That's not the balance of control I expected to see," Reid adds thoughtfully. "I know that we came the conclusion Castiel has Stockholm's Syndrome as of six months ago – if not earlier – but that's still a huge shift in how a victim would treat an abuser, even in that case. He literally has the dog attack Dean, and Dean doesn't have a problem with that. And Castiel specifically referred to it as 'evidence of kidnapping,' which Dean doesn't deny."

JJ is frowning. "Can you replay that for me?"

Hotchner restarts the video.

When it's done, JJ says, "We've gone about this whole thing wrong. Dean isn't an intimacy seeking stalker. He's something else all together. Castiel wasn't lying when he said 'he's not what we thought.' Dean does genuinely believe he loves Castiel in some fashion – I'm betting all those injuries we saw were escape attempts. I mean, three in nearly eleven months? He wants to win Castiel over and he wants to treat him well. His psychology –"

"It's nothing like what we assumed," Reid finishes. "It doesn't match up with Dean's criminal history at all. By this and Morgan's interrogation, I'd have to say that Dean is completely compos mentis, and always was. He knew exactly what he was doing when he kidnapped Castiel, he knew Castiel would resist. He wants to change Castiel's perception of him, bring Castiel to his side, purely as a deliberate and conscious effort."

"Using force," Morgan reminds him.

"Using as little as possible," Reid says. "I counted no less than six rooms and two hallways in those photos, as well as the three photos that were taken outside. That's a lot of free range for a kidnapping victim."

Morgan shakes his head, feeling a headache coming on. "This doesn't make sense."

"It may not make sense, but it's what we have. We need more information," JJ says.

"And you're the best way for us to get it," Hotchner says, nodding at her. "He lost his mother at four, he's raised to worship her and adore her by his father, who in his psychosis goes after an imaginary killer. In some ways, he's put her on a pedestal – but he's also lacked the motherly influence in his life, and he's probably missed that."

JJ taps her prep folder. "If I can get him to view me that way, he'll open up."

"I'll have made that more difficult," Morgan admits. "As much as it grates me to wait, Castiel is probably fine where he is – Dean's been away from his home base before. We should take the time to let Dean cool off."

"I agree," Hotchner says.

* * *

When JJ first met Castiel, he said, face calm and open, "You're experienced. Tell me what to do."

It was hardly the first time a random agent looked past her looks and femininity and instead at her record, but JJ still appreciates it every time it happens. Plus, because JJ started out as a communications liaison and not a profiler, some have doubted her work. Castiel treated her, and the entire team, as not just equals but also as people whose skill he had to work towards. When he joined the team, he was an easy fit because he worked so hard to mesh with them. JJ had looked forwards to years of being on the same team, and slowly growing as close to him as she had to the others.

Sometimes, when JJ is with her husband and her son, she wonders how he is. How he's coping, living alone with his kidnapper. Castiel is strong, she's never doubted that. And yet, he's also compassionate – sometimes to the degree he couldn't separate himself from a case. In that, she sometimes feared he would end up like Elle Greenaway, who after being attacked by an unsub became angry and brittle, and committed a murder (though they couldn't prove it) before resigning. The very dark places all the members of the BAU go does sometimes affect them.

Dean wants to make Castiel his partner. Morgan might not fear that, but in some way, JJ does. Dean has demonstrated a remarkable ability to bring witnesses and even victims, in some cases, to his side.

She stares at the photo of Mary Winchester while half-listening to Hotchner talk to Balthazar, telling him to get on a plane and come to Arizona. He's plan C.

Mary is blond and blue-eyed, just like JJ, and even some of her facial features are similar. JJ could slightly curl her hair, like how Mary wore it, but that would probably be too obvious of a play. Dean's not stupid. The key here is to play off his weaknesses and preferences without revealing she actually knows what they are, because if he does figure that out he will go the opposite of wherever she tries to lead him, just out of pure orneriness. She also doesn't want to break the fact that he is talking, however little he actually intends on telling them.

Hotchner hangs up. "JJ, you ready?"

"Yes," JJ says.

When she enters the room, Dean immediately sits up and smirks, the chains clanging as he settles his folded hands on the table. His expression is half angry, half flirtatious.

JJ just calmly smiles at him and takes a seat. "Hello, Dean. I'm Agent Jareau."

"So, take two? You taking over because the other screwed up?"

"Actually, I'm mostly here to listen," JJ says.

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes.

"We found your car, Dean. Including your camera."

Dean's jaw clenches and he pauses in the middle of a breath before continuing. "And?"

"I'm glad to see Castiel looking so well," JJ says softly. "A lot of the later pictures you took, he looks pretty healthy – tanned, even. I'm happy to see he's been going outside. But I'm a little concerned, too. Some of your earlier pictures showed him pretty bruised. What happened?"

Dean looks away, clearly uncomfortable.

JJ tries again. "Judging from what you've said, I don't think you hurt him deliberately. Right? Castiel is my friend, Dean, I just want to make sure he's okay."

"He's fine," Dean says after a full minute of silence. "Um, Castiel tried to escape. Three times. That's how he got hurt."

'That's how he got hurt' – Dean doesn't want to take responsibility. JJ decides not to push, keep Dean talking. "Does he have adequate food, where he is? Is he physically safe?"

"Of course," Dean says, sounding slightly insulted. "He's got everything he needs."

"Even if you're gone for a while?" It's the most delicate way she can put it.

"Yeah. He's fine. Don't worry about that."

JJ nods. "How is he doing now?"

This time, Dean answers a little more quickly, still looking wary, but perking up a bit. Like Castiel is a subject he'd like to talk about, but he can't. That may even be true, because of course Dean has to keep Castiel's presence a secret. Dean does have some acquaintances, but none that JJ knows of that he would trust that much. "He's doing a lot better. He was depressed for a while, but getting him Aditi helped a lot." Dean shrugs. "He reads a ton. Everything, too. At first I just gave him random old books that I had lying around, and he even read those, but now he's onto new thrillers."

"Aditi? Is that the dog?"

Dean nods. "She loves him, and he loves her, too." Dean makes a 'yuck' face. "I'm not particularly an animal person, but it makes Castiel happy."

"I always thought he'd be a cat person," JJ says lightly.

"Nah, cats are, I dunno – they're standoffish until they decide they like you, and most of the time they never do really like you. Cas? He's simple in some ways. If you push him away, he just goes 'cause he's polite like that. He wouldn't do well with a cat. He needs someone to love him."

That's … telling. Dean sees himself as someone who can love Castiel, truly and wholly. He's not talking about the dog here, he's talking about himself. Deciding to tip-toe, JJ says, "Castiel was alone a lot, when he was in the BAU. I think it was getting better near the end, and he was spending more time with us, but he seems to tend naturally to solitude, doesn't he?"

Dean nods his agreement. "He does need company, though. He told me he didn't want to be left alone for a long time. And of course he really misses Balthazar."

JJ wonders how much of that was genuine, and how much was Castiel trying to force Dean into a smaller jurisdiction, making him easier to catch. Since the trend of Dean only committing crimes close to home is fairly old – since about three months into the kidnapping – it was probably the latter. And it worked, eventually. "He's okay, though?"

"Yeah, he's okay. Cas is – Cas is really strong." Dean's lips quirk into a half-smile. "From the beginning, he was all super-polite, you know? Thanked me for food, complimented me on the cooking. And I mean, I'm a damn good cook, but I didn't expect him to actually say that. Given the circumstances. He said that's something you guys are trained to do, to view the people you're trying to catch as human beings. Helps you understand people like me, I guess?"

"I think you have a reason for taking Castiel," JJ says after a moment. "I think it's easy to say that people who commit crimes don't have good reasons, but I often find that's not the case."

Dean hesitates, looking like he's not sure he believes her words. And he's not wrong – it's a common tactic, for an interrogator to display empathy in order to convince a suspect to confess. "I'm not sure how good my reasons would be to you, but for me …" Dean shrugs.

"Tell me?" JJ asks.

Dean looks down. "Castiel's my soulmate. Like, my true soulmate. I know that sounds cliché as hell, but it's a real thing. And soulmates often share a heaven, when they die, as long as they meet."

"As long as they meet?" JJ asks. "So you had to meet Castiel, to share the afterlife?"

"Probably, yeah," Dean says. "And I mean, that's what it was about. I knew about Castiel years ago, back when he was in Texas. I looked into his life, and he seemed happy enough. But I – after Wyoming, seeing him in person – I don't believe in love at first sight. But it was something. There was something." Dean laughs without much humor. "You think I'm crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy at all, Dean. I may not agree with your actions, but you're not insane."

That seems to mollify him. "I'm crazy, okay. But not that kind of crazy."

"What does Castiel say about you?"

Dean smiles, like he's genuinely amused by his next words. "I'm a, uh, intimacy seeking stalker who developed into bride kidnapping. But without the psychotic element, apparently, because I knew he didn't love me, I was just some random serial killer to him."

JJ leans on chin on her elbow, letting herself look thoughtful. "Do you agree with his assessment?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't think about it, honestly. Your psych stuff, it's just naming shit people do."

JJ thinks about what to ask next. Dean is opening up a lot, and that's good. Eventually she'll work her way to talking about releasing Castiel, but not yet. "Why do you call him Cas?"

"I don't know, it just fit. Plus it's easier to say."

"Do you know why his parents named him that?"

"I know all his siblings were named after angels. I mean, Balthazar? Now that's both a mouthful and sounds really silly." Dean holds up a hand. "I'm not saying he's not a great guy! Cas loves him, of course he is. Just his name … He's lucky he had Michael, 'cause that's the kind of name you get beat up for."

JJ pauses. "When Castiel was born, he didn't cry. Castiel is the angel of solitude and she thought it fit."

Dean blinks, then grins with a bashful shrug. "That sounds like Cas."

She realizes she's right: Dean does want to talk about Castiel. Dean is _obsessed_ with Castiel, and he's never going to have another opportunity to talk with people who know him this well. That's why he didn't ask for a lawyer, that's why he didn't take his fifth amendment right not to speak – the BAU is the last group of people to know Castiel. He craves that knowledge, just like he craves everything about Castiel.

Conversation shifts into talking about random facts about Castiel. Dean shares things he knows – what Castiel likes to eat for breakfast, or his awful gap in film history. Dean goes at length about all the movies he's watched with Castiel, talking about how Castiel would let Dean hold him in his arms while they watched them, or how Castiel fell asleep during Sleeping Beauty, and Dean teased him for a week because of that. Though it could be self-deceptive on Dean's part, it sounds like Castiel allows Dean a lot of familiarity, both physical (touching, sleeping in the same bed, hugs) and emotional (talking about their respective pasts). There's details about how Castiel prefers cinnamon toothpaste, but has a small dislike for apple pie. Reese's are his favorite cheap chocolate. More personal details, too – things about Castiel's family. Dean knows that Castiel's family no longer communicates with him directly, sending him letters but not reading any of his in return.

From there, Dean gets quieter. He talks about the kind of person Castiel is, a person who wants to be useful to the world. He says it with a great deal of heavy, hidden emotion – it's not a light topic to Dean. JJ realizes that in his world of demons and monsters, he's sacrificed everything in order to fight them. He's given up his brother to that battle, as well as his safety and freedom. He empathizes with Castiel's desire to do good, and that's something JJ can use later.

Eventually, he speaks about how Castiel fought him in the beginning and knocked him clean out during his first escape attempt. Pain and guilt in his eyes, he admits that Castiel sobbed in his arms after the third failed escape attempt.

JJ listens, throat tight and doing her best to keep her professional demeanor.

Dean is slumped now, showing some exhaustion.

JJ decides he's ready. "Don't you feel guilt over taking him away from his friends and family?"

Dean starts to speak, then stops. "Yes." He stares down at his hands. "I think about it a lot, actually. When he wept in my arms because he'd failed to escape, when I came home and found him all bloody because he'd cut himself up. He still has scars from where he sliced himself too deep. You know that was the first time he asked me for help?" Dean looks up and his eyes are haunted. "I'm a son of a bitch, I know that."

"Then why not change?"

Dean shrugs. "I promised Sam I wouldn't blow my brains out when he died. That started it. But – but now that I have Cas, I can't let him go. I just can't. I love him too much."

"Why do you love him, Dean?"

Dean stares at her. "I could list all his good qualities, but somehow I don't think that's what you're asking. I don't know, I'm not a philosopher. That's like asking what love is. Who the fuck knows? I just know I'd do anything for him."

"Even let him go?"

Dean rolls his eyes, but there's discomfort behind it. "Of course you're going there."

"Can you blame me, Dean? I care for Castiel, I want him to be free."

"I can make him happy," Dean insists, as if that's all it comes to. "No, look. I swear to you, I can make him happy. I have made him happy in a lot of ways."

Perhaps that is the root of the delusion JJ has to break – the idea that this is good for Castiel, that being held prisoner is all right simply because Dean will take good care of him. She doesn't think Dean actually is taking completely good care of Castiel – certainly not psychologically, even if he provides physical and some emotional needs – not when so much of Dean's thinking is based on himself. On how much he loves Castiel, and not enough on Castiel's needs. "But if he didn't choose that, Dean, how is that real?"

"Well, I can see why you're a profiler," Dean says. "Cas said the same thing." He pauses. "You ever heard of artificial happiness?"

"Synthetic happiness?" JJ automatically corrects. "Yes."

Dean points at her, the gesture awkward because his hands are chained to the table. "Isn't that real? Real enough? If you choose it, and you feel it, that's real."

"But isn't granting a person a choice better than not?" JJ asks. "I know you've said to other law enforcement that you hunt monsters, right? Would you force someone into that profession?"

"That's different," Dean says immediately.

"How so?"

Dean frowns. "Don't try to trick me."

"How have I tricked you, Dean?"

"You want me to trick me into letting Cas go. But I can't. And I won't."

"I'm asking questions, that's all. I'm trying to understand you." JJ keeps calm.

"He's my – he's my lover. Are you married?" Dean asks suddenly, bright green eyes suddenly meeting hers.

"I am," JJ says. "And I have a son."

"If your husband wanted to leave, would you let him go just like that? Or would you fight for him, to keep him?"

JJ is going to have to be very careful here. "I would never hold a gun to my husband's head to keep him home. I would never chain him to the floor. I'd use words, yes. I would try to persuade him, and I would continue loving him. But I wouldn't ever use force, because that's not love, that's possessiveness."

"I've – I've only kept him. I haven't, I've never wanted to hurt him," Dean whispers. "And I'm not a rapist."

Morgan said that. JJ wonders if she could go down that path. It might be useful, it might serve to show Dean that he is hurting Castiel. Depending on what's happened. "You called him your lover. Did you mean that?"

"He is." And more insistent, "And he's even used that word himself, before you ask. Every time he told me no, I stopped. Even when he asked me to just back off and didn't want me touching him at all. I never did anything without his consent. And he enjoys it. It's not rape."

"Did you coerce him in any way?" JJ asks carefully, watching for his reaction.

"No!" Dean snaps immediately. "Okay, well. A little bit, in that I made a deal."

JJ feels sick, but she just nods.

"In return for letting him write that letter to his brother, I asked for us to sleep in the same bed. To sleep, not for sex." Dean grimaces. "That was kinda manipulative."

"I'm glad you see that," JJ says. And she's being honest. That kind of self-honesty might make it easier to convince Dean to let Castiel go. To tell the BAU where he is. "I'm sure that was hard for Castiel to agree to, knowing how he likes to keep his distance."

Guilt, again. "Yeah."

"All right," JJ says. She could keep pushing, but Morgan tries that route and Dean dug in his heels. She wants her words to settle in his mind, so she'll say her piece and wait for Dean to process it. "I'll lay out for you, Dean. If you truly do love Castiel, that means putting Castiel's needs before your own. And while it does sound like Castiel really does care for you, and that he might even love you, I don't believe being held prisoner is good for him. And I don't just mean you go home and give him the choice to stay or go, Dean. I think you should let him go. And if he returns to his normal life and lives it, and still wants you – well. Then I might say his emotions towards you had some sense of realness.

"But what you have now is forced. The psychological pressure of being alone, with only you as his company, is immense. I could tell the studies I've seen on what that kind of isolation does. And you're right, Castiel is incredibly strong. But he will break. Do you want that, Dean? To break Castiel?"

Dean says nothing, staring at the table.

"Loving him means letting him go and letting him choose his own happiness. Dean. Do you understand?"

Dean looks at her, eyes hollow, and doesn't respond.

"Please, Dean. Tell us where he is."

"I can't," Dean says quietly.

JJ nods. Instinct warns her that he'll shut down if she keeps pushing. "Well, I think you and I both need to rest and think. But do me a favor, Dean?"

"Sure," Dean says immediately. Which is both surprising and encouraging.

"Think about what I've said. And let an officer know if you want to talk."

Dean nods slowly. He watches her every move as she gathers the folder – which she didn't have to use, and will probably save for later – and exits the room.

Most of the team is waiting outside. Only Rossi isn't present, but JJ knows the interview was recorded and he'll view it later. Hotchner is the first one to speak. "Excellent work."

JJ shakes her head. "I didn't get him to tell me where Castiel is."

"But you laid the groundwork for that to happen," Reid interrupts. "You didn't convince him, but you definitely introduced doubt to Dean's way of thinking. Convincing him it's wrong to hold Castiel prisoner is a huge step."

"We're going to use Balthazar," Hotchner says. "I think he's our best chance of breaking through to Dean."

* * *

It's a Wednesday when Balthazar gets the call. He's in Arizona by three in the morning on Thursday.

Through the eyes of others, Balthazar has always understood that his relationship with his brother looks a little odd. Balthazar is only two years older than Castiel, but Castiel's always been the sturdier one, the stronger one, the silent one. Balthazar remembers as a child of ten watching Castiel calmly deal with a bully a grade up, first politely asking him to stop, and then punching him in the face (once, of course, to get the point across) when that didn't work. When their parents asked him about it later, Castiel only said, "I used necessary force to make him stop."

Balthazar really should have seen the police force thing coming.

By contrast, Balthazar painted gay slogans and Nascar jabs on a jock's car in tenth grade. They never caught him.

For years, Balthazar's been slowly working on Castiel's ability to relax and let others in. The BAU had been, oddly enough, good for him. Having a constant team to confide in had opened Castiel up emotionally, given him more people to lean on. Their childhood was in some ways very strengthening, and in others very isolating. It taught them all to have a strong core, to understand that you depend only those you love and those that love you. Family is everything, when they love you.

Castiel and Michael extended that farther than their parents intended. Of course Gregory and Margaret tried to give their kids a strong moral center, but not one that would lead two of their sons into direct danger.

Balthazar's rather ordinary life of fun, drinking, women, and teaching ten old year old adorable brats was more expected. His letters still get read, as long as he doesn't talk about Michael or Castiel – not anything that would cause worry or stress, anyway. So even now, Balthazar fills them with stories about that totally insane red-head he tried to date because she was a yoga instructor, or that time a fifty pages of love poems fell out of a student's backpack. (The intended recipient, another ten year old, should probably keep that kid.) He writes about the new club on the corner, and the gradually increasing stench of piss in the accompanying alley that he has to walk by every day. He tells them about the high school student that told him that Balthazar had given him a love of writing, and how he planned to be a novelist.

Balthazar loves living life. Castiel loves saving it. Of all people, Castiel didn't deserve to have a psycho by the name of Dean Winchester kidnap him.

Balthazar read up on him when Castiel's team figured out who took Castiel, and it was horrifying. He threw up when he thought about what that kind of nutjob would do to his brother. What that nutjob has done to other people's brothers. He's wept, he's sobbed. He's punched the wall more than once. He took three months off after it happened, and spent most of them freaked out or drunk or trying not to drink because what if his brother needed him?

He has to admit, the school has been good to him. Giving him the time off he needed, and giving him a loose rein when he came back. He totally didn't mean to break out crying in the middle of a class because of a story a kid had written about his dog being kidnapped, but the principal understood.

Castiel and Balthazar had always been close. They shared all their secrets, including that time in college when Castiel pissed off a cheating ex-girlfriend by making out that with that hot guy. Or when Balthazar totally stole Castiel's girlfriend, and Castiel just said, in his usual way, "If she feels that for you, then I support you both."

Finding that incident in the letter had been reassuring. His brother was still alive; only Castiel knew about that or could reference it in that specific way, that meant _I love you._

Eleven months into Castiel's kidnapping, it's one of the few things that keeps Balthazar hoping. One of the others is the weekly phone call he gets from either Agent Hotchner or Agent Jareau – most of them are brief, because the agents have nothing to add. Nothing new to report. But they always end the call with, "We're still looking."

And now they have him. Dean Winchester.

Balthazar's had three cups of espresso, trying to counteract the Valium he took last night. His leg is bouncing, and he half wants to burst out of his chair and charge down the hallway, looking for the BAU. The police station is on lockdown because of Winchester being held here, and the fact that Winchester has always escaped police custody. He's never been held long enough to stand trial. Somewhere within a few hundred feet of Balthazar is the psycho that Balthazar honestly thinks he'd be able to hold a gun to and kill. Before this, he'd have said he couldn't take a human life.

He knows better now.

Agent Jareau walks down that hallway and smiles at him. As always, her eyes are compassionate, more feeling than Agent Hotchner ever gives. Her strength is warmer. "Thanks for coming, Balthazar."

Balthazar nods and pops to his feet. "We still don't know where this psycho is keeping him?"

Agent Jareau shakes her head. "I'm afraid not. But I spoke with Dean last night and I think that a more personal plea might work. Come on, I'll take to our working area for now."

The FBI appears to have taken over several offices and a conference room within the police station. It looks like it's mostly being used as one, large office – there's laptops set up, files spread all over the place, and some photos of an old, black car filled with weapons. That must be Winchester's.

Agent Morgan, Agent Rossi and Dr. Reid all greet him in person, then Agent Jareau takes him aside in a tiny office and sits him down. She begins, "We want you to talk to Dean Winchester. We know Dean is holding Castiel somewhere, and we believe Dean is telling the truth when he says Castiel has adequate supplies for the time being. However, we don't know how long those supplies will last."

Balthazar stares at her, mute with horror.

"I know asking you to talk to your brother's kidnapper is asking a lot, but you need to remain as calm as possible and act as if Dean cares for your brother as much as you do. We think it's important that you bring this up in the context of your worry for your brother, but most of all this needs to be genuine. From your heart."

"Are you fucking kidding me? I have to act like I understand that psychopath?"

"For Castiel," Agent Jareau emphasizes.

Balthazar nods quickly. "Okay, okay."

"I want to stress that we found some photos of Castiel, and he looks healthy and unharmed."

Balthazar exhales, and is glad he's on a chair, because his legs feel weak. "He's okay?"

"Physically, yes," Agent Jareau says. "I'm not going to lie to you. He's probably been under a lot of psychological pressure, but everything we have indicates to us he's okay."

"And so I talk to this asshole, ask him to tell us where Cassie is?"

"Yes." Agent Jareau lays out a plan, more or less. Dean (and he has to call this asshole Dean) got roughed up by some officers overnight, so he's probably already rather resistant to being spoken to. Agent Jareau did her best to distract him away from that and had an hour-long conversation about Castiel, mostly light things, according to her. She thinks he's primed to be persuaded to let go Castiel go. Dean already has a strong older-brother trigger, because of his relationship with his own younger brother, so she recommends that Cassie becomes 'my little brother.'

She also makes Balthazar swear several times he'll remain calm, but the truth is he feels jittery. Anxious. Afraid. He doesn't know what he's going to do.

Agent Jareau lets Balthazar see Dean through the fake mirror police stations always seem to have. On TV, anyway. He can see that Dean was roughed up a bit, with some bruises on his jaw and forehead, a few small cuts. It's not enough. He'd really like to split the bastard's head open with a baseball bat, but not until Castiel is back and safe. Dean is handsome despite the well-deserved injuries, and even now he looks relaxed, like he's an innocent man. It's infuriating. At the same time, Dean looks pretty physically fit – he fought Castiel and won, but now he's chained up. At least Balthazar doesn't have to worry about that.

"You ready?" Agent Jareau asks.

"As I'll ever be," Balthazar replies.

Dean looks up when Balthazar enters and closes the door behind him. The BAU is watching, of course, as Dean's expression flickers from confusion to recognition.

Balthazar sits down and then leans across the table. "Where's my brother, asshole?"

Dean eyes him. "Bal, right?"

Shoving down the impulse to leap across the table and beat the shit of Dean, Balthazar replies, "Yeah, that's me."

"You don't look much like Cas."

"His nickname is Cassie, and I take after – you know what, who gives a fuck. Where are you keeping my little brother?" Balthazar demands. " _Where is he?_ "

Dean winces. "I can't tell you that. But he's fine."

"Oh, oh, and I'm supposed to believe a serial killer when he says that – I'm so comforted!" Balthazar can feel himself losing it, but he can't stop. "What the fuck is wrong with you? How dare you act like – like you can even say a damn _word_ about Cassie. Where is he? Where did you take my little brother?"

"I know it sounds insane, but I love him," Dean says, expression fierce. "I do. I would do everything to keep him happy, but I can't let him go. I need him, Balthazar."

"I need him," Balthazar snaps. "His family needs him! His friends! And even if we didn't, he's a fucking human being not your fucking pet!"

Dean's jaw clenches. "I know that. He's not my pet, he's my soulmate. I swear to you, he's fine. He's healthy and strong and he reads a shit ton of books, and he makes fun of cop movies and demands cinnamon toothpaste. He's okay. He bitches about how I like too much salt, he throws books at me when he gets frustrated. I know him, and I love him, and he's safe with me." Dean's eyes are intense, narrowed, like he's trying to pound what he says into Balthazar's skull.

The words take Balthazar's breath away. All those things – those are things Castiel does. It makes the fact that Castiel is being held somewhere by this man real. "Please," he whispers. "Please, I want my little brother."

Dean closes his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry."

"If you were really fucking sorry you'd tell me where he is!"

Dean's hands are fists, but his words are pained: "I can't. I can't."

Balthazar tries to remember what Agent Jareau told him to do. Empathize, act like he believes Dean cares. He's holding onto the lip of the table like it's a life raft. "How – how is he? Does he ask about me?"

"Yeah. He talks about you sometimes, along with your parents and sister. Quiet about Michael, though. But I haven't found a good way for him to communicate with you. I mean, without being caught. And Castiel was wary of writing letters, he thought it'd freak you out more if you weren't able to answer."

It certainly holds with the weakness of the Novak family. "He's wrong." Throat tight, he adds, "And he should get the chance to tell me in person."

"I can tell you anything you want to know," Dean offers, like it's kind. "Except where he is. But anything else. I'm sure Cas wouldn't want you to worry about him."

Balthazar just stares at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? Do you even realize what you've done?"

"Yes!" Dean finally snaps. Words spill out of him in a rush. "I know. Of course I know. Yes, I kidnapped your brother and I'm holding him against his will – this is not new. Yes, I'm totally aware of how fucked up that is! But you know what? My entire life has been fucked, so there's no reason to stop now."

Balthazar's hands are hurting from gripping the table so tight. He tries to think, tries to imagine what Agent Jareau wants him to do. "What if he starves to death while you're in prison?"

Dean blinks, slightly taken aback. "That won't happen," he says confidently.

"You're willing to put my brother's life on the line? Because you love him so much you'll risk his life?"

"He's surrounded by a hundred years of protections and he has everything – food, shelter, company. He'll be okay." Dean seems sincere as he says it, as horrifying as that is.

All of the sudden, the anger leaves Balthazar, and the remaining terror for Castiel bursts forth. "Please, fuck, please just tell me where he is. He's my baby brother, and I know he's an FBI agent and he's strong, but he's the kid who kissed his little sister's skinned knees, the one who calls me every week and listens to all my shitty stories, and he _doesn't deserve this_."

Dean looks stricken.

"They told me you had a baby brother, wouldn't you do anything for him? Anything to keep him safe? I want my brother home, can't you understand that?"

Dean opens his mouth.

"Don't you dare tell me he's already home," but it comes out pleading. Balthazar reaches out to Dean's chained hands, but doesn't actually touch him. He feels the tears start to stream down his face, feels the gut-wrenching agony of knowing his brother is stuck somewhere, chained up like a criminal or worse, and his captor is right here, saying he's fine. "Don't do this. Please, let him come home."

"I'm sorry –"

Balthazar leaps from his chair, vaults across the table, and punches Dean in the face.

Dean jolts backwards but is prevented from moving far by the fact he's chained to said table, which is bolted to the floor, so Balthazar's second swing also connects. Fury and satisfaction make Balthazar go in for a third, but there's suddenly arms on him, pulling him back and he struggles, pointlessly but repeatedly, until Agent Morgan's voice breaks through, telling him to stop.

Dean Winchester is slumping over the table, his chair gone, his wrists pulled tight against his cuffs. And he's saying, "It's okay, it's okay, I'm fine."

"Where is he!" Balthazar screams at those words, Agent Morgan getting a better hold on him.

Dean nods at him slowly, blood flowing down his chin. "Listen to me. If I die, if I don't go back, then someone will come and let Castiel go."

Balthazar freezes. "What?"

"You're right, I wouldn't put him in that kind of danger." Dean's words come out a little slurred, because of the injury to his mouth. "So if you can keep me here long enough, Cas goes free. You deserve to know that."

Balthazar stares at him. "I hope the next time someone decides to rough you up, you end up dead."

Dean just regards him steadily, before looking over his shoulder and saying to Agent Morgan, "I want a lawyer. And I'm taking my Fifth Amendment right."

Then Agent Morgan drags him out of the room.

The next few minutes are a blur. The BAU team members are talking to one another, sorting through what Dean said and other possible meanings and implications. Most of it goes over Balthazar's head, because all he can think of is Castiel coming home. If he could, he'd shoot the asshole in the head right now and end any worry. Because, or some reason, he thinks Dean is telling him the truth. Those steady green eyes, the eyes of a serial killer, had actually held some kind of understanding and sincerity.

He comes back to himself, sound and sight suddenly filtering in, when Agent Hotchner puts a hand on his shoulder. Balthazar looks up at him and asks, "Is he lying?"

Agent Hotchner is silent for a moment. "I don't think he is."

"Cassie is coming home?"

"We'll be holding Dean in a maximum security federal prison until trial. I don't think even he can escape from that."

Balthazar begins to cry. Relief, but also fear. Dean only said 'if you can keep me'. Castiel's not free yet.

But Agent Jareau comes to him and says, "You did really well. I can't make any promises, but you got something incredibly important out of him."

Balthazar nods. "Cassie can hold on. We'll get him." And for the first time in a long time, he believes that.

* * *

Five days later, after a young, red-haired woman appears on camera with no recording of how she got there, Dean disappears from his cell.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN** : I cannot guarantee when the next chapter will be due to RL reasons. However! How many of you noticed it's now 10/15? I estimate another five chapters and we're done! It might be more, but it won't be less. :) (Also, I did not edit down the explicit scenes because I'm too tired. I may do so later.)  
 **Warnings (spoilers!)** : Dubious consent to sex.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

Dean sits Castiel down in the kitchen and tells the story.

The hunt went about as expected, except that his hunting partner got injured and sidelined, and so Dean went to take care of the last part himself. That's how he ended up unconscious in an old, nearly abandoned highway. (Dean says, "That's why you always have a partner. Unless you're John Winchester." Castiel does not point out Dean almost always hunts alone.) Once he was taken to the hospital, he was recognized and taken into custody. He started praying to Anna the moment he was taken while looking for opportunities to escape, but the local police force was unusually thorough.

Or prepared.

Castiel listens in shocked silence as Dean describes the arrival of the BAU and the two interrogations, one by Morgan and one by JJ. He's pretty brief – Castiel knows there was more said than Dean is telling – but there's enough for Castiel to fill in the gaps. Morgan hoped to break Dean psychologically, and JJ was plan B. It occurs to him as Dean describes her that she looks a lot like Dean's mother. That's probably why she was chosen, though of course Castiel doesn't say that. It isn't necessary or appropriate right now.

In a sense it feels unreal, to think of Dean interacting with his team members. His former team members. Two entirely different worlds that he thought would never meet.

"After that, they brought in Balthazar," Dean says hesitantly. He's sitting opposite Castiel, having pulled up the other chair so they're facing each other without the table in the way.

"You saw my brother?" Castiel demands, eyes widening. He didn't predict that, though if JJ was making personal appeals, he should have. "How is he?"

Dean smiles a little awkwardly and waves a hand at his bruised face. "Pissed."

Castiel laughs, a little wetly. He wipes his eyes.

"Cas, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Taking you. Kidnapping you." Dean looks away. "I'm not going to pretend I'm going to just let you go, but I am sorry. I didn't want to admit how much I was hurting those around you."

Surprise keeps Castiel silent. Dean has never apologized for that. For hurting him, yes. For isolating him, yes. For all the stupid and inconsiderate and downright selfish things he's done, but never that one. And now that Castiel has it, he doesn't know what to do with it. Logically, he should push while Dean's emotionally vulnerable – push for his own release from captivity. But Dean is slumped over, bruised, exhausted, and trembling just a bit as he stares at Castiel, waiting for his reaction.

So Castiel just nods. "I know."

Dean takes a deep breath. "I love you."

Castiel smiles faintly. "I know."

"Anna got me out. I wasn't sure she would, they had me for five days, but she finally got out of whatever heavenly business was keeping her, and got me out of a federal supermax. And fortunately nothing figured out I was there, without any supernatural protections." Dean glances at the doorway that leads to the foyer, and to then to outside. "She promised she'd pick up Baby, too."

It feels like a dodge. "Dean, what did Balthazar say?"

"Demanded I let you go." Dean pauses, stares down at his hands. "Lots of things like that." He looks up, but focuses on some spot over Castiel's shoulder. "Can we talk about that later?"

"He didn't pass on anything?" Castiel persists.

"I don't think he thought I'd get out," Dean admits. "I told him about the contingency plan, if I died on a hunt or something. He was worried you'd be stuck here. That's where the conversation ended."

Castiel's vision goes blurry. In his mind, he can see his brother, shifting between demanding and begging for Castiel's freedom. It's a vision that hurts, it hurts because his brother is suffering, and it hurts because Dean was likely suffering too, and that matters as much as he knows it shouldn't. So he breaks. Through the blindness of his tears, he sees Dean come up to him and then wrap him in his arms. Castiel lays his head on Dean's chest and lets go.

He doesn't know what to feel except pain. Had Anna stayed away, Castiel would be free and with his brother. Had Anna stayed away, Dean's life would have been in more danger as his supernatural enemies caught up with him. Grief and relief meet like oil and water, or two opposing forces at work. He feels muddled, confused.

The clarity of understanding how much he cares for Dean is gone.

Dean gets his arm under Castiel's, so most of Castiel's weight is on Dean's shoulder. Castiel lets him bear for it a second, then remembers Dean is still injured and stands up straight.

"Hey, hey," Dean says, concerned. "It's okay, I was just going to take both of us to the bedroom. To rest."

Instead of cooperating, Castiel places a gentle hand on Dean's face. He traces the bruise on Dean's eye, then skirts Dean's swollen lip. For once, Castiel didn't place them there.

"Cas?"

"I'm glad you're okay," Castiel finally manages.

A heartbreaking smile spreads across Dean's face. Without a second of hesitation, he hugs Castiel again. They're pressed together as closely as they can while still being clothed, chest to chest, hip to hip. Dean's scent is slightly strong, like he hasn't had a shower recently, and the intensity of that is reassuring. Dean is here. Castiel isn't alone. Dean's hands rest on Castiel's back, and then he pushes up Castiel's shirt, so his rough fingertips tickle the sensitive skin of Castiel's lower back. Castiel twitches away and into Dean's body on instinct. Dean thrusts back, and Castiel can feel Dean's cock slowly hardening.

"I missed you," Dean whispers into Castiel's ear.

Castiel pulls back a bit, enough to see the desire in Dean's eyes and the soft, fond curl of his lips. But there's no intention of acting on it, Castiel knows Dean well enough to see that. It just doesn't take much for Dean to get turned on. But a similar desire stirs low in his belly, raising his cock. It's insane, to feel this for this man. To feel lust and affection, after everything.

But it's so much easier to just care for Dean, to desire him in return. Balthazar is out there, waiting for him. The BAU is still searching for Dean.

And Castiel is here.

Castiel kneels on the hard floor, and Dean gives a sharp inhale in response, licking his lips. Castiel undoes the button of Dean's jeans, then pulls down the zipper. Castiel shifts Dean's jeans down his hips enough that he can also get Dean's boxers out of the way. Dean is almost fully erect now, his cock bobbing in the open air. Castiel kisses the tip then slides his mouth down until it meets his hand, curled around the base of Dean's cock.

Dean moans, loudly, and places his hands on Castiel's head.

The salty taste of Dean's pre-come is strong on his tongue, the musk of Dean's smell even stronger between his legs. Castiel sucks and hums, and when Dean begins to lightly thrust, Castiel just takes it, the head of Dean's cock sliding down his tongue to the back of his throat. He closes his eyes without thinking about it, focusing on the feel of Dean's thick cock. Dean runs his fingers through Castiel's hair and says, haltingly, "You're amazing. Just watching you – oh fuck, Cas."

Castiel knows just about everything about having sex with Dean. He knows all of Dean's erogenous zones, he knows what makes Dean's cock spurt extra pre-come, he knows what turns Dean on beyond all reason – Castiel, of course, wanting him. Wanting his dick, wanting his come, however he can get it. So he can tell when Dean is getting close, when Dean is verging on coming. Dean tries to pull out of Castiel's mouth like he always does, grunts when Castiel sucks harder and holds Dean still with his hands on Dean's hips.

"Cas, I can't hold on," Dean says, sounding increasingly desperate.

Castiel doesn't let up. Instead he opens his eyes and looks up at Dean, his captor. The person he's giving a blowjob. The person he considers his lover.

Dean bites his hand and thrusts forward, hard enough to make Castiel's jaw hurt a bit from opening wider, and then he comes. His eyes roll back in his head and his body tenses up as his cock jerks. Ejaculate fills Castiel's mouth, salty and bitter. Two, then three pulses of it. Castiel pulls off until only the tip of Dean's dick in his mouth, then carefully swallows Dean's come.

"Did you just –" Dean's eyes are wide. Castiel's never done this before. Spat, yes, but never swallowed.

Castiel gives Dean's cock one last hard suck, then pulls off entirely. For some reason, he feels powerful in this moment. Only he can do this to Dean.

Dean grabs Castiel's hands and drags him to his feet, and then kisses Castiel hard, heedless of his swollen lip. The bitter of blood mixes with the taste of Dean's semen. He knows his mouth must be smeared with red, because when Dean stops kissing him, he drags a thumb along Castiel's lower lip, finding blood there. Dean licks his own lips, trying to stop the bleeding. He looks overwhelmed, sated, blown away. "Thank you," Dean whispers.

Then Dean drags Castiel to their bedroom, strips him naked, and pushes him onto the bed. Castiel spreads his legs on instinct, and Dean moans, wiping his mouth. "Fuck me," Castiel says recklessly.

"I will," Dean promises. "But just my fingers today. I want to drive you wild before I sink my cock in you." Dean grabs the lube and gets two fingers ready before thrusting them deep into Castiel's body. With two fingers in Castiel's ass and his other hand on his cock, Dean jerks him off.

Castiel tries to push down into Dean's fingers, up into his hand. The pleasure coming from two directions is so intensely odd, something he's only ever had with Dean. In that moment, Castiel realizes that as much as it turns Dean on to know that Castiel wants him, Castiel in turn is aroused so much by a man because this particular man wants him – above all else. Beyond reason, beyond logic, beyond morality.

With that thought, Castiel comes over Dean's hand. Gasping with pleasure, but shock at his own realization, too. Two fingers still inside of Castiel, Dean uses his other hand to collect Castiel's semen and lick it up. He sighs, deeply and then smiles at Castiel. His own limp cock is still hanging out of his jeans, and it looks obscene.

"Get naked," Castiel requests.

Dean strips down and lays down with Castiel, pulling a sheet over them both. Their legs entangle, as entangled as everything else about them, and Castiel falls asleep, caught.

* * *

As strange as it is, life returns to normal.

Dean heals up slowly. Anna stopped by just once, to return Dean's car, and when she came at him with two fingers raised, expression intent, Dean waved her off and said, "It's okay. I deserve these." Anna had only raised an eyebrow and left. Castiel watched her disappear, conflicting emotions rising at her presence – anger, but relief, too. He resolves not to think about it too much. As much as Dean's been through, Castiel's circumstances haven't changed.

Dean's lip heals first, which means they're able to return to kissing safely. Castiel missed it. There's some bruises on his stomach and back as well, boot marks. Balthazar didn't land those, but Castiel chooses not to comment.

At night, Dean holds Castiel tight.

Castiel comes to consciousness slowly early one morning, half awake and half still asleep. He feels Dean's hands caressing his shoulders, then working down to his back until he reaches the curve of his ass. But rather than dip between his legs, Dean returns to his back, sliding his hands around Castiel's front. Touching his chest, his belly, his hips. Just like the first time they shared a bed, he draws circles on Castiel's hipbone. The touches are slow, thoughtful. Not really that sexual.

"Dean?" Castiel asks sleepily. The room is still dark, only the faint light from the hallway letting him see anything. Of course, that's always the case; there's no windows down here.

"Morning," Dean says into his neck, a warm puff of breath. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"You," Castiel replies on instinct.

Dean laughs. "I can do that." His hand slips to Castiel's cock and he begins to stroke. Castiel squirms at the strong squeeze on the head of his dick, and Dean takes the opportunity to press his body up against Castiel's, so Dean's cock is sliding up between Castiel's cheeks. The tip of his dick leaves wet trails, and Castiel begins to harden. "Hmm, can I try something?" Dean asks.

Castiel nods.

Dean flips Castiel over onto his stomach. A tendril of fear works through Castiel, and he tenses up. "What are you doing?"

In answer, he can hear Dean grabbing the lube from the night stand. Then he straddles Castiel and presses his cock between Castiel's thighs. "Can I come like this? On you? Not in you," he adds. "Just like this," and he thrusts, using the tight space between Castiel's legs as pressure and friction.

"If you suck me off after," Castiel says, because it's not like his dick is getting good friction, pressed between his belly and the sheets.

"That sounds fair," Dean says, a lilt to it, and begins thrusting. It's almost like Dean is fucking him – Castiel can feel his dick sliding against Castiel's ass and upper thighs, even if Dean isn't quite hitting that clenched muscle. But Dean is on top of him, thrusting hard into his body, and to someone else it'd look like anal sex. Maybe that's the point, to ease Castiel into that idea. It doesn't take long before Dean comes, messy between his legs, but he doesn't clean Castiel up.

Instead, he flips him over and goes down on him, sucking hard. His head bobs in time to the movement of his hand, and he grins up at Castiel. As much as one can with a cock in his mouth. He lifts and gently rolls Castiel's balls, before one finger trails further down. Dean gets the tip of his finger in before Castiel comes hard.

Castiel comes back to himself with his legs spread, Dean cleaning him up with a wet washcloth. Dean smiles when he sees Castiel looking at him. "Better?"

"Hmm," is Castiel's only response.

Dean kisses him lightly, then says, "Crepes. For breakfast. After something bitter, I want something sweet."

Castiel laughs.

Dressed and sitting at the kitchen table, watching Dean make their meal, Castiel ponders his situation. Not for the first time. Castiel used the sex as much for distraction as it was for pleasure, especially when he gave Dean a blowjob in the kitchen right after hearing about how his brother begged for Castiel's freedom. There's a fleeting thought that Balthazar would be sickened by that, by Castiel knowing people are looking for him, and then giving Dean sex. But with the ease of practice, Castiel thinks about something else.

Hidden in their recent sexual activity is that realization that he can't let go of, the idea that he's turned on by Dean taking him, wanting him that badly. He knows, logically, it's similar to the reasoning and emotional response behind rape fantasies. But those are always fantasies.

And this isn't rape.

"How are you, y'know, doing?" Dean suddenly asks, curling up a crepe while he gives Castiel a worried look.

Castiel blinks. "In reference to what?"

"The BAU. Your brother."

Castiel hesitates. "I'm not sure. It's been so long since I've thought about escaping. About leaving. But – they're still looking for me."

Dean lays out a plate. "I'm happy you're here," he says, uncertain.

Castiel puts his hand over Dean's. "I know. But you and I both know that I didn't come here by choice."

"And now?"

Casitel stands up and pulls Dean in for a kiss. But rather than go with it like he always does, because Dean never says no when Castiel initiates sex, Dean pushes Castiel away. "What?" Castiel asks, completely thrown by Dean's reaction.

"I think you need to think about this," Dean says awkwardly, meeting Castiel's gaze. "Not that I wouldn't love to have some fun, but I think you're using sex as a distraction."

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut. "I care for you a great deal," he says into the darkness. "But Dean – I can't. I don't know. I don't." He can feel his heart begin to race and puts his hands over his face. Panic rises. "Please, please stop."

"Okay, okay," Dean agrees immediately. He takes Castiel in his arms, holding him close. Castiel opens his eyes to Dean's soft, worn black t-shirt, focusing on making that sight and that feeling and this moment his whole world. "I'm sorry."

Castiel stays there with Dean holding him for several minutes, before he silently lets go and sits down. The crepe is slightly cold now, but it still tastes good. Aditi, who watched the emotional scene without making a noise, now whines at Castiel's feet for a taste. When he thinks Castiel isn't looking, Dean is the one to slip a piece to her.

Castiel smiles behind his hand, the heavy weight on his chest lightening.

* * *

Castiel's feet are in Dean's lap, while some science fiction film blares on the TV. Castiel's slumped into the couch, which over time has become more and more of a monster that ends to eat them when they sit. At this point, half the time Castiel has to have Dean pull him out of the big, comfortable sucking monster that the couch has crumpled into. But right now, he's just relaxing, only half paying attention to the film as Dean rubs the arch of his foot.

Dean switches to the other foot and pulls off Castiel's last sock. He finishes the foot massage, but he doesn't push off Castiel's feet like usual. Instead, carefully without looking at Castiel, he slides his hand up Castiel's left ankle. Where the cuff lies. He strokes the skin under it, rough fingertips finding the callused spots where the weight of the cuff lays. Where it's been for almost a year. Castiel twitches, having completely lost track of the movie now. The sensation is unusually intense, because he's used to only the feeling of cold metal against the skin there.

Dean traces the circle of the cuff, even the text. "It's October 10th," he says.

That knocks the breath out of Castiel. "Oh." A year. It's been exactly a year since Dean came up behind him in his apartment and choked him to unconsciousness. And here he is, getting his feet massaged, relaxing with his kidnapper.

"Are you okay? I didn't want you to realize after the fact." Dean keeps one hand on Castiel's left ankle, caressing his skin.

How far has Castiel come in a year? Nowhere. He's still no closer to escape than the day he woke up on their bed. But his mind and his emotions have been radically transformed. Dean is no longer the dangerous serial killer Castiel had hunted, the list of symptoms and behaviors that spelled out psychopath. Instead, Dean is the man who gave up his brother for the world, not once but twice. Dean was tortured and then tortured others in hell, but came out and strove to do good. To save others.

Dean can no longer be summed in a few words. He's too large, too distinct, too much of a person that Castiel knows so, so well.

Castiel's situation is the same. But his understanding of it is entirely different.

He takes several deep breaths, willing the tightness in his chest to loosen. He meets Dean's worried eyes. He knows what Dean fears – he fears that this will be a step backwards. In his plot to take Castiel and make Castiel his, or just in their relationship. Technically, they are the one and the same, but it doesn't feel that way to Castiel, not on a gut, instinctual level. "I'm okay."

Dean stills. "Really?"

Castiel nods. "I don't want to dwell on the past. I want to live life as I have it now, regardless of the reason." It's a part of the promise Castiel made to himself to break himself free from the prison of depression. There's no reason to abandon that now.

Dean takes a shaky breath. "Okay. Good. I'm glad."

"Do you ever regret taking me?" Castiel asks curiously.

Dean lets out his breath in a gust, like Castiel had punched him in the stomach. "Well, yes and no. I regret the violence in how we met, yeah. I don't regret having you here."

That's about what Castiel expected to hear. He tilts his head, watching Dean return his gaze warily. "Do you ever intend to take the cuff off?"

"I hope to," Dean says, not looking away. "I really hope to."

Castiel half smiles. "So we can go to the beach? Visit that place with the best pie?"

"And eat the original BBQ pizza, don't forget," Dean says wisely. He strokes up Castiel's calf, then back down again to the cuff. Then again. He leans over and kisses Castiel's knee. "I could never regret knowing you, Cas. I don't know how soulmates are chosen, if it's God or what, but someone or something did it right."

Castiel thinks about that. He's never deeply wondered about the whole soulmate phenomena, not since he'd accepted it as at least partial truth, with the appearance (and existence) of Anna. It seems a little strange that soulmates aren't destined to meet, if they really are real. But maybe that's part of the mismanagement of heaven, that cupids don't always arrange a meeting between soulmates. Since soulmates share a heaven, it seems like that's their proper domain. Like they should be in charge.

It does take away the notion of free will, though, that Dean, Sam and Anna fought so hard for. "Dean, do soulmates have to share a heaven? Would I get a choice?"

Dean freezes. "Um, you know. I don't know. I never asked." There's fear in his eyes, but he still asks, "Do you want me to find out from Anna?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Can't say when I'll get an answer, but I'll make sure she gets the message," Dean promises.

"Dean. Don't worry."

"Shouldn't I?" Dean asks.

Castiel shrugs a little. "I don't hate you. I think that's obvious."

A small laugh bursts out of Dean, unwilling laughter. But a smile lingers. "That's good to hear."

Castiel swings his legs off of Dean and sits up. He holds out his hand and says, "I feel like going outside and watching the sunset. Join me?"

Dean takes his hand, squeezing tightly. "'Course."

* * *

"Okay, that look good?" Dean asks, hose in hand and water spraying out on the dirt.

They're outside and it's late morning, the sun shining down on them brightly. Dean's hooked up a hose in various ways to the bunker's plumbing, so Castiel's outside space can have water. Castiel's had him soaking the entire area with a lot of water, so the ground is malleable mud instead of hard dirt. Usually grading or flattening an area is done mechanically, these days. Castiel's not exactly a gardener, but even he knows that. Aditi is near the doorway, well out of reach from the hose. It'd only taken one mistake by Dean to have her very wary. Not a dog who likes water, apparently.

Castiel nods. "Yes."

For the next two hours, they both even out the ground. Castiel lays out paving stones after that, along with grass bought from the store. (Dean had a hell of a time transporting them in Baby without causing a mess.) By mid-afternoon, it's looking like a proper backyard.

Castiel, despite the cool air, is drenched in sweat.

Dean saunters over to him. "Done for today?" he asks hopefully.

"I suppose," Castiel says, drawing out the words.

With a wild grin, Dean comes close, his warm hands going up Castiel's shirt and stroking his nipples. Castiel laughs, twisting away. Dean laughs and chases, not stopping until Castiel trips over the boundary and falls flat on his ass. Dean straddles him and shoves a hand down Castiel's jeans, hand skimming Castiel's cock.

On impulse, Castiel says, "I love that you're so spontaneous."

Dean's eyes widen a bit. "Well. Good." And he kisses Castiel.

* * *

"I love when you take care of me," Castiel says when Dean offers to do laundry that week because Castiel has a slight cold, even though it's Castiel's turn.

"Always," Dean says in response, not even looking up from measuring the detergent.

* * *

"A ghoulpire," Dean says triumphantly. "Totally a ghoulpire."

"You're such a dork," Castiel responds. "I love that about you."

* * *

"So, yeah. I took your findings and went a bit further – turns out there were two of them, not one. The guy I passed the hunt onto said he managed to save two girls from being torn to pieces." Dean nods to Castiel and finishes making the bed. "All in a good day's work."

"I love that you want to save people," Castiel says, looking up from his pillowcase.

And Dean pats the bed and answers with a saucy grin, "I love that about _you_."

* * *

Castiel is lying naked in bed, waiting for Dean to get out of the bathroom so they can turn off the lights and go to bed. Dean went to the store today, his car fully decked out in hiding spells and hex bags, and he'd got a ton of food and supplies that they spent most of today organizing. Dean figured out the meals he could make, and Castiel planned out how much other supplies they use in a given week. Though there's only the two of them, sometimes organizing the bunker can take time.

Dean leaves the bathroom, also naked, but his cock isn't entirely soft. He stands at the foot of the bed, watching Castiel.

"What?" Castiel finally asks.

"Do you still want me to fuck you?"

Castiel hesitates, bringing in his limbs from his formerly relaxed posture.

"Talk to me," Dean encourages, sitting next to him and laying a hand on Castiel's thigh. "I can tell you have misgivings or whatever. What are they?"

Should he tell the truth? He's curious about anal sex, and he knows that Dean's fingers are very pleasurable, but some part of him still has reservations. "I know it's not logical, but …"

"Yeah?" Dean prompts.

"You'll have had all of me, Dean." Castiel looks away. "Everything I have, you'll have taken."

Dean starts and stops. Finally, "Do you mean you fear I won't want you after? After I've had that part of you?"

Castiel shakes his head, sitting up so he and Dean are at equal height. "That I will have surrendered to you completely."

"Well, I can't deny I want that. Not because I want to control you, I just – I just want you to be mine as much as I'm yours. Look, I'm not one for metaphysical sentimental shit –"

"But you believe in soulmates," Castiel interjects dryly.

"But," Dean says with a mock glare, "yes, I want us to have all of each other."

Castiel raises his eyebrows. "So I get to fuck you?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yes." He pauses. "Cas, I love you. I want this. But if you say no, then that's that."

In many ways, Castiel has submitted to Dean. Willingly and unwillingly. He's given up on escaping, on hurting Dean. He's surrendered all his plans to Dean's wants, which is to keep him here with Dean indefinitely. He's surrendered being with his brother. And in return, he's been given Dean's love. He's taken that, accepted that into himself. This act really isn't any different.

He swallows past a dry throat. "All right. Yes."

"You won't regret it," Dean promises. "I'll make you feel so good, I swear."

Castiel gives him a small smile.

Silently, with his hands, Dean encourages Castiel to lay down again, on his stomach this time. It's a position that immediately shoots Castiel's anxiety into the sky, but Dean kisses the small of his back and says, "Not yet. Relax." He runs his hands down Castiel's back, then over his shoulders and arms. The second time, he applies pressure, turning the gentle stroking into a massage. Only when some tension has left Castiel does Dean move down to his ass, again doing little more than caresses. Then to his thighs, his calves, and his feet.

By this time, a lot of the tension is gone. Castiel doesn't even react when he feels Dean get off of the bed, his body humming in relaxed pleasure.

Dean returns with oil and begins at Castiel's shoulders again, working his way down Castiel's body. He even does Castiel's hands.

When Dean has Castiel turn over, Castiel realizes he's half-hard already. Dean smiles at Castiel's cock, clearly pleased by its state, and kisses the tip. He doesn't continue, instead only getting more oil and beginning to give a full-body massage to the front of Castiel's body.

"You're beautiful," Dean whispers. Once he's done with Castiel's feet, he pushes Castiel's legs apart, urging him to bring his legs up so his soles are flat against the bed.

Then he takes Castiel's cock into his mouth and sucks. He hums and bobs until Castiel is fully hard and breathing fast. Castiel's not quite ready to orgasm, but his body is in a mix of loose and tense, like if Dean kept going so softly Castiel would come, and if Dean went for direct pleasure, Castiel would come, but both at the same time leaves him twisting in the wind. When Dean finally pulls off, he leaves the bed and then returns with lube and a spare pillow. He directs Castiel to raise his hips and puts the pillow under him, so it raises Castiel's ass several inches.

Dean returns to the blowjob, but now one of his fingers goes to Castiel's hole. Slicks it up and then pushes in.

Castiel makes an embarrassing noise, and Dean laughs a bit past Castiel's cock, looking up with a smirk in his eyes.

Dean fucks him with that finger for a full minute before he adds a second one. This is still within the realm of normal – Dean likes to finger him to orgasm. Dean showed him how pleasurable that could be. He ends up biting one of his hands and putting the other on Dean's head, fingers through Dean's soft hair.

A third finger presses against Castiel's hole. "Oh," he says, resisting the urge to squirm. "Dean. I don't know if that will fit."

Cold air hits Castiel's cock while Dean replies, "Don't worry, it will."

The blowjob is sufficiently distracting that Dean's third finger pushes in without much effort. Castiel moans at the sensation, and then again when Dean starts to stretch him. It's somewhat uncomfortable, initially burning a bit as Dean forces his body to accommodate his spread fingers. He hits Castiel's prostrate randomly, once hard enough that Castiel's entire body jerks in response. It's almost enough to bring him to orgasm, but Dean quickly gets his fist on the base of Castiel's cock, squeezing to prevent him.

"Dean," Castiel groans.

That same smirk playing across his lips, Dean brings Castiel to the edge again and again. By the fourth time Castiel is prevented from coming, he's thrashing and trying to force Dean to fuck him harder with his fingers, trying to thrust into Dean's warm mouth.

Dean pulls off Castiel's cock, lips slick with spit. His face is flushed with desire and excitement, and the smile he gives Castiel is slightly disbelieving. "Three fingers, Cas. I wish you could see yourself stretched around me."

Castiel actually blushes, and feels stupid for it.

"Cas, trust me," Dean says. "Fuck, you look so hot like this." He licks his lips. "I'm going to move you around a bit, okay?"

A bit exasperated, Castiel asks, "Do I get to come?"

Dean grins. "Yep."

Dean's fingers leave him, which is even weirder than having them in him. Although his hips are propped up, he can still see Dean scramble for the lube. He can still see Dean stroke his hard cock with it, getting himself ready to fuck Castiel. Like the first few times Castiel gave Dean a blowjob, Dean's cock suddenly seems really large again. Intimidating, in its flushed red tip, the thick vein that runs along the bottom of it. That thing is going inside of him, in a part of his body not necessarily designed for that.

With a gentle smile, Dean gets his arms under Castiel's thighs, pushing Castiel's knees to his chest. The position fully exposes Castiel's ass. "Fuck, you're so flexible," Dean says with a groan, and then moves forward.

Dean holds Castiel open with one arm, his forearm under one of Castiel's thighs, and with the other he grabs his dick and thrusts his hips forward, until Castiel can feel the blunt tip press against his hole, which is still fairly loose despite how tense Castiel is. Dean's panting as he presses forward, and Castiel's panting in a mixture of fear and arousal. "Dean," he says, but he can't get anything else out.

"C'mon, you can take it," Dean says, reassuring. Hopeful and excited, and in a weird way so very young, like he hasn't lived the hard life he has. "Let me in."

It feels obscenely large and overpowering, and then Dean jerks his hips forward and the head of his cock pushes into Castiel's ass.

"Fuck," Castiel moans. It feels huge. Stretching him wide.

"Oh, Cas," Dean says, eyes dark. "You feel amazing, so tight around my cock. Can you take the rest?"

"I –" Castiel doesn't even know.

"Relax," Dean says, and then thrusts. Castiel can feel every inch as Dean fucks him bit by bit, and he tenses up. "You feel, oh," Dean mutters. His head tips back and he finishes, "I can feel you tighten on me."

Castiel is softening from the slight pain and stress, so Dean uses his free hand to stroke him – long pulls, rubbing the slit with each round. Castiel relaxes a little as pleasure overtakes the discomfort, quickly hardening again. His hand joins Dean's, so they're both stroking his cock.

Then Dean shoves in, balls slapping against Castiel's ass. Castiel lets out a surprised yelp. It feels like Castiel's entire body is shifting around to accommodate Dean's cock, the way his legs are spread and lifted, the muscle at his entrance gripping Dean's dick tightly, even his own hard cock against his belly. He feels full. Dean doesn't move any further, panting as he stares down at Castiel. He fists Castiel's cock for a moment, then his hand disappears between Castiel's legs. He strokes the rim of Castiel's entrance and says, "You're so tight. I can't believe you're letting me do this, take your cherry."

"I am not a virgin," Castiel objects automatically.

"You are in this," Dean says with a smile. "Well, were. You ready for me to move?"

"Not to increase your ego, but you feel huge," Castiel says. "Will that hurt?"

"Maybe a little, but you're relaxed enough and lubed well, it'll turn good quick," Dean says, hips twitching like he can't wait to get started.

Castiel licks his lips, one hand still on his own cock. His nerves are jangling, pleasure and discomfort mixing. "Okay."

Dean withdraws about an inch, then thrusts back in. He fucks Castiel with little strokes like that, while Castiel does his best to consciously choose to relax and take it. Dean looks lost to it, like Castiel is the most amazing thing he's ever felt. Castiel feels overwhelmed, but in a good way, like he can't even take in all he's feeling. The discomfort has faded away again, leaving only pleasure. Dean begins to speed up and go harder, jolting Castiel's body with each thrust. Making his entrance twitch with the force of each move of Dean's hips. The slap of Dean's balls is – is – it reminds him of what's happening, what he's experiencing.

Another man, fucking him. No, Dean, fucking him. His lover, who even now looks at him with love in his eyes.

"Waited so long for this," Dean tells him, and then adjusts Castiel's body, changing the angle of his fucking.

The next stroke hits Castiel's prostrate head on. Castiel cries out in satisfaction, wordless.

Dean pounds that spot, pounds into him with forceful thrusts. Castiel can feel the entire length of Dean's dick, feel the way his entrance drags on Dean's cock. It's good, surprisingly good. Dean pushes Castiel's knees farther up, grabs one of Castiel's hands to encourage him to hold himself open for Dean. When Castiel obeys, Dean fucks him even harder.

And he whispers, "Mine," then repeats it louder, "you're mine. Mine." Thrust, and Castiel bites his lip and closes his eyes, letting himself feel it. He jacks himself off to the tune of Dean's words, which are somehow arousing. Dean wants him, oh how Dean wants him, and that's enough to bring Castiel to the edge.

Dean's hand scrambles to Castiel's cock, taking over. Castiel opens his eyes to see Dean staring at him with unbridled lust, like he hasn't let Dean fuck him, like even with this he's not sated.

"Come for me," Dean demands. "Please."

"Oh, Dean," Castiel says, and then Dean's hand hits him just right and his cock hits Castiel's prostrate just right and he _comes_.

When he comes back to himself, covered in his own semen, Dean is completely holding him in place, and he's going for his own orgasm in Castiel's loose and sated body. Castiel can really only describe the expression on his lover's face as ecstasy, as cliché as it sounds in his own head. When Dean finally comes, his whole body tenses up and then he completely stills for one second. He falls forward, half catching himself, and Castiel takes the other half, bracing Dean with his hands, then letting Dean fall into his arms.

Dean's skin is hot and sweaty, just as much as Castiel. Dean lies there and pants, then kisses Castiel's shoulder. "Could stay in you forever," he murmurs. "Finally home."

"I think biology will take over," Castiel says wryly. Dean is softening already, he'll probably slip out in another minute.

Dean levers himself up, smiling down at Castiel. "Thank you," he whispers. He shifts backwards so Castiel isn't bent in half, still doing his best to keep inside of Castiel. He runs his hands along the insides of Castiel's thighs, biting his lip when he finally does slip out. Semen comes out with it, slick and hot. Familiar and unfamiliar, because Dean's come against him right there so many times, but never inside.

Castiel twitches in surprise when Dean pushes in one finger. "What are you doing?"

"Like to see it," Dean says. "My come."

Castiel bats his hand away. "Dean, sometimes you're like a caveman."

"No, I'm not!" Pause. "Okay, sometimes. Can I?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm sore." And he is, as the adrenaline and endorphins die down, but it's mild enough that he'll be fine pretty soon.

"Sorry," Dean says, immediately apologetic. He lays next to Castiel, swinging an arm and a leg over Castiel's body in casual possessiveness. "Was it worth it, though?"

It didn't feel like surrender, even if it was. It felt like a meeting, a joining. "Yes."

Dean's smile is sweet.

* * *

Castiel's garden is slowly growing. Since it's winter, most of that growth has been the artificial kind as Castiel has continued to grade the area and plant more plant life. He decided to go with a circle theme, with everything in curves. It's a lot more elaborate than anything Castiel would have considered before, but why not? He's got the time and energy. He might as well be thorough. He's not totally satisfied, but more colorful additions will have to wait until spring. Aditi has become quite fond of playing in the dirt that Castiel can't fill yet, once even completely covering herself in thick, gooey mud. Dragging her into the bathroom for a bath had been quite the experience, not helped by Dean's laughter.

It's late afternoon, and Castiel has been here since late morning, so he puts down his shovel, calls to Aditi, and goes inside.

Dean's not in the kitchen. Aditi goes to the pantry which has her food and dances in circles, so Castiel puts down a bowl for her, then leaves to find Dean.

As it turns out, he's in the infirmary, sitting at a random desk in the corner with electronic supplies spread out in front of him. There's even soldering equipment, though it's laid to the side. Castiel can use most technology just fine, but all he recognizes is very small circuit boards.

"What are you making?" Castiel asks curiously.

Dean looks up with a smile. "Something useful. I'll tell you about it later." He eyes Castiel's sweaty body. "You done digging up dirt?"

"For the day," Castiel says. He raises an eyebrow. "You know it would go faster with help."

"I dig up graves, that's enough dirt for me." Dean puts a tiny screwdriver into a pack and zips it shut. "C'mon, I want to show you something."

"What is it?" Castiel asks. There's not much Dean can show him in the bunker that he hasn't already seen.

Dean stands up and grabs Castiel's hand. "You'll see."

Castiel has access to a lot of empty portions of the bunker. Dean wanted him to have the space to roam without actually giving him anything he could use, so Castiel can go through most of the dormitory, part of the library, and some random hallways that lead to dusty and empty rooms. There's also a section that at one point had some kind of machinery, judging from the bolts on the walls and floor. That's where Dean takes him – a large, open space that's not useful for much because the floor is uneven.

But when Dean takes him through the doorway, Castiel immediately sees how it's been changed.

A fourth of the space has been converted to dirt. Another fourth has several large dog beds, and bins of toys. There's even a TV attached to the wall, and a box next to it which presumably has a DVD player. The rest is kind of like a dog jungle gym, something like what Castiel's seen in obstacles courses for dog competitions. It's really incredibly ornate, for just one dog.

"A place to put Aditi?" Castiel guesses.

"Yep! I even put in the TV so she'd get some noise and something to watch."

"But – why? What's all this for?"

Dean shifts his weight. "Well, just in case."

"Of what?"

"Of, y'know."

Beginning to get irritated, Castiel says, "No, Dean, I don't know."

Dean meets his gaze. "In case you and I go out. Together."

"Oh." Very small.

"I figured since she's pretty much got you all day and all night, it'd be tough for her to have you gone for a while. So, I made this. I know how much you care about her, so it seemed like the thing to do. Some blog sites recommended the stuff." Dean still looks eager. "What do you think?"

"I –" Castiel doesn't know. Dean is thinking about that? "You want to take me out of the bunker?"

Dean swallows, and squeezes Castiel's hand. "Cas … please stay. With me."

Castiel stares at him. His heart begins to race and his pulse thuds in his ears, and when he blinks the world swims. "Dean, I can't – I can't do this."

"Cas, you can! You just have to –"

"Don't you realize what you're asking of me? To abandon everything I ever had, everyone?"

Dean takes Castiel's other hand and slides his palm up, so they're forearm to forearm. Castiel tries to look away, but Dean follows him. "If you would just promise me, Cas, we could figure it out – I swear, work out something. I just can't lose you."

Castiel yanks his hands away, stumbling a bit. Dean's words are pounding in his head to the rhythm of his heart. He's breathing fast and starting to hyperventilate, and he tries to stop and take a deep breath, but his body doesn't obey. He's trembling, and he has no control over that, either. His body has hit fight or flight mode and there's nothing his mind can do. He's helpless in the face of it, standing, shivering. "D-Dean, I can't."

"Okay, okay," Dean says, grabbing Castiel's shoulders, and then Castiel crumples to the floor. "Shit!"

He's panicking. He's having a panic attack.

Waves of it crash over him, even as Dean wraps Castiel in his arms, holding him tight like he can hold Castiel in. He can dimly hear Dean muttering comforts, telling him everything will be fine, that Castiel will be fine, but it feels like it goes on forever, the endless feeling of fear that's more than emotion and instead something that's vibrating through his bones. His body begins to feel distant, like a sound that's only faintly filtering through all the white noise of panic.

Time passes. Days, it feels like.

Eventually, the panic bleeds off, leaving behind total exhaustion. Dean's still holding him, still saying, "It's okay, I'm here, you'll be fine."

At last, Castiel repeats, "I can't."

"I know, it's okay," Dean says reassuringly. "Just rest." After around another twenty minutes, Dean silently urges Castiel to his feet and takes him back to their bedroom. Castiel's limbs feel weird and uncoordinated, and he has to lean on Dean to make it. He lays Castiel on the bed and then comes back with some heavy blankets, which he tucks around Castiel. The weight is reassuring, causing some of his remaining tension to leave. Dean sits up next to him, stroking his hair. The shaking subsides.

Later, Dean turns on some movie that's only a blur of random words and colors to Castiel.

Then he falls asleep.

* * *

Castiel wakes up with a bare, hairy thigh between his legs and an arm slung over his waist. He's sweating a little from the heavy blankets and where he's pressed against Dean – which is most of him. He doesn't remember Dean undressing him, but it makes sense that Dean did. He can feel Dean's deep and even breathing, since Dean is curled around him as close as he can get. Castiel twitches, wanting to stretch, and Dean tightens his hold before letting go.

"You awake?" Dean whispers.

Castiel nods, then says, "Yes."

Dean kisses the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry," Castiel replies, staring at the white sheets before closing his eyes. "But you keep doing things you have to apologize for."

"Yeah. I do." Two, three, then four puffs of warm air. "Tell me what you need, Cas."

"Let go of me."

Dean immediately pulls back, cool air rushing in the gaps. Castiel throws off all the blankets and stands up, looking back to see Dean sitting up. He's got a guilty look on his face, which isn't exactly new. Castiel isn't panicking anymore, but he's still on edge, and he's pissed enough about it that he just stalks past Dean and goes to the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

He leans on the sink, taking several deep breaths. There's still no mirror, so he finds himself looking at painted brick instead. After a minute, he stands up straight and does yoga breathing. It helps.

The shower water is hot enough to turn Castiel's skin red in short order. It even stings a little. Castiel lets that sink in for a moment, then turns it just a little cooler, and steps inside. The water is soothing, and so is the routine of washing his hair. It's getting long again, curling at the ends. He'll need Dean to cut it soon. There's body soap, and Castiel lathers up his hands with it before cleaning the sweat off his skin. He's as muscled as he ever was in the FBI, but something still seems strange about his own body.

Water dripping off his nose, he runs his hands down his back, then his stomach. Feels the same. He even hefts his soft cock, contemplating sex for a few seconds.

That's when the door opens. Castiel looks up, seeing a dark figure move through the half-translucent shower curtain. "Dean?"

Dean peeks around the curtain, expression calm. "Can I come in?"

Castiel hesitates, then nods.

Dean smiles faintly and steps in, already naked. "Thanks." He shifts on his feet, and Castiel moves back far enough that Dean gets some of the warm spray. "I just wanted to say I didn't know that would affect you like that, and it'll never happen again."

Castiel stares at his feet. "Why do I love you when you hurt me?"

Dean coughs. "Wait, uh – you – you love me?"

Looking up is hard, very hard. But Castiel does it anyway. Dean is wide-eyed, as shocked as Castiel has ever seen him. Castiel didn't intend on saying it that way, but now that the words have spilled out, he recognizes the truth in them. Not just in that he loves Dean, but that he's capable of loving someone who hurts him. But then, love doesn't mean the absence of pain, does it? As much as he loves his family, they have caused him pain, and he's done the same to them.

Very gently, Dean places his hand on Castiel's elbow, a small guiding touch. "Cas?"

"Yes. I do love you." It's true, and something giddy is rising in him at the thought of it. "You're an idiot, but I love you."

Dean laughs. Once, disbelieving. Then twice, in joy. Castiel can't help but smile at the pureness of it. Dean steps in and kisses Castiel, lightly, then hard and passionate. His tongue presses at the seam of Castiel's lips until Castiel gives in. Castiel's pulse is beginning to race again, but for an entirely different reason. Dean puts his hands on Castiel's hips and pulls him in, his hardening cock poking Castiel's belly. "Can I – can we have sex? I just – I just want to show you how much I love you."

Everything is physical with Dean. Actions, not words. So Castiel nods, fondness replacing his anger. He gives in to it, that love. He slowly begins to smile, and something light rises in his chest. "Yes."

Dean shuts off the water with a forceful yank, then pulls the shower curtain back and pulls Castiel out. He bypasses the towels completely, water splashing all over the concrete floor in the bedroom. Castiel shakes his head, watching water droplets fly from his hair. Dean lets go of Castiel for just a second, stumbling over to the night stand and triumphantly returning with lube in hand. He grins, that boyish, charismatic one he uses when he's genuinely happy. It's infectious, and Castiel ends up returning it.

"I love you," Dean says. "I love you, I love you," and then Dean asks, "Lay down?"

Castiel nods and lets Dean push him to the bed, kissing him all the way and causing a collision hard enough to make pain flare in Castiel's lip. "Dean!"

"Sorry, sorry," Dean says quickly. His hands run down the water-slick front of Castiel's body before taking Castiel's cock in hand and jacking him off. Castiel bites his lip, making it hurt even worse.

One, then two lubed fingers slide into Castiel's ass, stretching as they go.

When his body finally accepts three, Dean asks, "Face to face, or on your stomach?" He pauses, then asks as if he finally figured it would be polite, "Or some other position?"

"I want to see you," Castiel says.

Just like the first time, in this second time Dean grabs a pillow and puts it under Castiel's hips. Then he's moving between Castiel's spread legs, pushing them up to expose Castiel's hole, and then moving forward with his hard cock in hand. Castiel closes his eyes at that point, waiting. Waiting for Dean to take him, to make Castiel his. He feels it when the blunt tip of Dean's cock presses against that tight ring of muscle, gently at first and then harder. More insistent, until the muscle suddenly gives way and the head of Dean's dick pops in.

Then inch after inch, until Dean has taken him completely. When Dean is fully seated, balls pressed against Castiel's ass, he pauses for a moment. "Cas, look at me?"

Castiel open his eyes.

Dean smiles at him fondly. And then begins to fuck him. The wet sounds of sex are loud in the room, as Dean slaps into Castiel, as Dean grunts with each powerful thrust. The smacking sound of Castiel stroking his own cock, pleasuring ratcheting higher and higher as the combination of sensations push him close to orgasm. "I love that you love me fucking you," Dean says. "Taking my cock, moaning for it."

Castiel's never been the least bit tempted to return Dean's dirty talk, but he moans at it anyway, stroking himself faster.

"You're mine, Cas," Dean says, the words coming out breathy. "Aren't you mine? Say it," he demands.

His lip feels like it's about to bleed when Castiel bites it again, words wanting to spill out. "I love you," he says instead, or maybe because that means the same thing. And then he comes, clenching down tight on Dean's cock.

Dean follows him a mere second later, saying, "Fuck, oh fuck, I love you, _Cas_."

They lie there, panting, for several quiet minutes. Dean's cock slips out, along with a good amount of come, wet and warm against Castiel's sensitive skin. This time when Dean fingers him, watching his own semen spill out, Castiel lets him. The expression on Dean's face is curiously intent, like he's memorizing the sight. Then Dean grabs a portion of the sheet to clean them both up, kissing Castiel's sated cock last. Castiel laughs.

"Thank you," Dean says, curling up next to him on the bed.

"For?"

Dean watches him a moment, happy. "For being you."


	11. Chapter 11

**AN** : Next chapter will be Dean's POV. Can't guarantee a date you'll get it, but it will be a longer chapter since it will start near the events of chapter one.

 **Warnings (spoilers!)** : Dubious consent to sex, a tiny amount of bloodplay (biting), possible non-consensual sex (Dean initiates sex while Castiel is asleep, Castiel consents when he wakes up).

* * *

In the beginning of December, Castiel is floored when he walks in the kitchen and there's several dozen bags of Christmas decorations. Both because of the sheer amount of sparkle and because he'd completely forgotten about Christmas. Usually commercials and Christmas jingles in stores warns him it's coming and he gets his gift giving into gear, but with the complete lack of cable and internet access it completely blindsides him.

Dean is in the middle of it, two bags in hand while he contemplates where to put them. He smiles when he sees Castiel and comes up to him and puts an arm around his waist. "What do you think? I've got a tree on the top of the car." He scratches his head. "Totally handles differently that way."

"I didn't even think about Christmas," Castiel says, watching Aditi start sniffing the bags. He turns to Dean. "You celebrate it? We didn't last year."

"Well, yeah. When I was kid with Sam, and then a bit when I was adult with Sam. Not since, y'know, though. I just didn't think of it last year 'cause of that."

Castiel nods, understanding. "Of course."

Dean shoots him a sad smile, then seems to sake himself out of it. "I got one of every color combination, just in case. I mean, it only occurred to me when I went into town and there was just a ton of Christmas decorations. So I got a lot. I got some weird looks and some lady asked if I had obsessive Christmas disorder." Dean pauses. "Which I do not."

Castiel smiles. "I'd think the same thing."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Well? Do you want to help set it up?"

"Let's put it in the den."

The logical place to start is the tree, the heaviest object. But Castiel realizes pretty quickly that Dean didn't think this through as soon as soon he hears the words 'six feet tall.' While a guy helped Dean get the tree on top of the car, Castiel can't go outside and help him get it off. Dean blushes and stammers and then says, "Oh never mind, I can do it. I'm no pussy." He's grunting and sweating and cursing by the time he gets into Castiel's reach, and Castiel can't help laughing at the sight.

"Dean, just two more feet and I can reach it," Castiel says, hiding his humor. "Also, did you check the car for scratches?"

Dean pauses in his efforts. "Fuck."

"Tree first," Castiel advises.

One more monumental effort and Castiel can grab the tip and carry a good portion of the weight. They rearrange themselves and the tree so both have a better grip, then heave it down the stairs. They prop it the corner of the den, after carefully maneuvering it past the large screen.

"I'll need help with centering it later," Castiel says, "but you should look at your car. I'll handle the rest."

"Thanks," Dean says, and gives Castiel a quick kiss before darting out.

Figuring out what Castiel has is a task in and of itself. He's not much of a decorator (he didn't even have a tree the year before Dean took him), but things to do are always welcome. He'd lived a busy life as an FBI agent, and having all the time he does is one of the things that has worn on him most. Though Aditi is very good for that; she needs the same care every day, but she does need it.

There's red and green, blue and silver, and red and silver. Plus random smatterings of gold. He finds the most random crap, including random characters of some kind in cheap plastic. Children's toys, presumably, with a Christmas slant. There's glitter everywhere, mixed with simple pieces of glass that would look appropriate in the pages of a magazine.

Castiel decides Dean can't tell the difference between tacky and elegant.

"So, buffing out scratches it is. For tomorrow, I mean," Dean says, walking in. "What did you do? Everything is everywhere." He pokes a pile of silver stuff with his foot.

Castiel looks up, then around himself. "I'm making piles. Don't disturb them."

Dean holds up his hands. "Okay, okay."

By the time dinner rolls around, Castiel's moved all the bags and their contents to the appropriate places. Tree ornaments go in the den, miscellaneous crap (with their receipts, just in case) in an empty room, and decorations in the infirmary, because that has the largest space for Castiel to spread out. It has the additional bonus of having a door that shuts securely, since Castiel spent roughly a fourth of his time making sure Aditi didn't carry off anything in her mouth. Castiel blames teaching her to attack stuffed animals. But it'd been fun at the time.

"Pizza!" Dean says, leaning on the door.

Castiel gets up and steps past the bags, calling Aditi to his side with a snap of his fingers.

Dean grins at him. "I didn't think you'd get quite so into this."

Castiel shrugs. "It's something to do."

"Yeah. Um, that envelope is waiting, for whenever you want." Dean's light-heartedness fades a bit, into concern. "Just so you know."

Looking away is as much as admitting guilt, but Castiel does it anyway. Castiel has few pages of blank paper and a pencil. It's remained blank for months. He's sat down more than ten times and doesn't get farther than 'Dear Balthazar.' "I know. Pizza?"

"All meat, just how you like it."

* * *

The tree is set up in the den. It'd been a task to center it on the tree stand, because it is a natural tree and not a fake one, but they'd managed it with little more than a few scratches. Dean bought no less than six tree skirts, so Castiel ended up choosing the white and silver one. They got snow last week, and it seemed appropriate.

Dean helps him unwind the lights, which are blue. "White and blue?" Dean guesses.

"And silver," Castiel says. He shrugs. "It seems the most pleasing to the eye. Did you ever decorate as a child, Dean?"

"Not really. Not that I remember, anyway. After Mom died, Dad was so focused on hunting that Christmas – including gifts – was kinda left to me. I ended up stealing random ones under people's trees, sometimes. So, yeah. There wasn't a budget or anything for trees or lights." Dean moves to the tree, figures out where the plug is and puts it in before handing off the lights to Castiel. "Well. When I was sixteen, I had a part time job out of sheer luck, so I got Sam a tree and some real presents."

"My father required a third of all gifts to be handmade," Castiel says. "So along with learning how to use tools and woodworking, we all did crafts at a pretty early age." He smiles, remembering. "Balthazar insisted on making all his gifts to me bright pink. I've got a box in a closet somewhere with nothing but various, random objects he'd painted pink. Ashtrays, coasters, toy soldiers, things he'd made over six years. I did insist on leaving behind the pink desk chair, though."

Dean smirks. "That kid has spunk."

"That kid is older than you," Castiel says wryly. He hands the loop of lights off to Dean, who rolls it around his side of the tree. "You know I can't get you gifts, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean says, waving a hand before he winds his side and hands the lights to Castiel. "Don't worry about that."

"Unless you really want me to crochet you a hat or something."

"What?" Dean laughs. "You know how to crochet?"

"Hey, I made myself years worth of scarves. Don't knock it."

The sheer amount of disbelief on Dean's face is a little offensive. "You crochet."

"I said our parents required a third of our gifts to be handmade, didn't I?"

Dean points at him with his free hand. "I'm getting you crochet-y things now, you do know that, right? Because I have to see this."

"If you can actually figure out what I need –" Though of course, all it really takes is a few hooks and yarn.

"Hey! I can google."

Castiel finishes off the lights fifteen minutes and two more connected lines later. He lets Dean pick ornaments from a preapproved pile, but two ornaments in Dean leaves and then fumbles around with the TV, before managing to put soft Christmas music on. It kind of makes the whole experience dreamy for Castiel – of course he and Dean have become very used to their domestic life together, but this is such a common, normal way of living life in December. It soothes Castiel. It's so very easy to forget his other Christmases and how different they were.

Dean is flushed with lazy happiness. He's content. Truly content, really. There was often a sense of unease and fear in Dean, Castiel realizes now. Because it took so long for Castiel to love him back.

The tree is a shining mix of silver, blue and glass by the time they're done. Dean got creative and managed to place all the glass right in front of the lights, so they shimmer instead of fading into the tree.

Dean wraps his arm around Castiel's waist. "I love it."

"It turned out well," Castiel agrees.

"Hot chocolate?"

"With milk?"

"Done!" Dean says, and leaves the den.

Castiel sits on the floor in front of the tree, looking up at it. There's no lights on besides the tree's, so it glows. Dean returns in a few minutes with two large mugs, topped with whip cream. He hands one to Castiel and then sits on the floor next to him, but to Castiel's surprise he doesn't comment. Instead he just stays there, a quiet companion. Castiel lets his mind drift, thinking about things he'll have to ask Dean for – maybe they can see some Christmas films? – and anything else he needs before Christmas arrives. He sips the hot chocolate, letting the warmth sink into his bones.

There is one area, he realizes, that Dean isn't content. "Dean, why are you so possessive in bed?"

Dean startles. "What do you mean?"

"You mark me with your come, you say how I'm yours, talk about how much you want to fuck me." Castiel shrugs uncomfortably. "You like to watch your come leak out of me. It's not that I really mind, but I do wonder why you act that way."

Dean's hot chocolate suddenly becomes very interesting, for all the depth of emotion he's giving it. He swallows before answering. "I fear losing you. I mean, it turns me on to say those things, I won't deny that. But it feels like if I just hold on tight enough, you won't slip away."

"You'll always fear that," Castiel says matter-of-factly. "As long as I have this cuff on my leg."

"But that's the only thing – I mean, I know you love me, Cas. But I still fear that you'll go, if given the chance."

Castiel shrugs. "I can't answer that. You know I can't. My mind just – I can't process it." Some of that panic flickers, but Castiel pushes past it to get out what he wants to say. It's not a condemnation, but a statement of truth. "But if I'm never given the choice, then that is something you will to live with. As will I."

Dean is silent, staring down for several long moments. When he finally does look up, there's a weird sadness in his eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

* * *

As if in answer to Castiel's question, Dean becomes gentler in bed. Not all the time, but instead of Dean always being possessive in his lust, he sometimes becomes softer and more contemplative. He'll lay Casitel on the bed and arouse him without touching himself, or getting himself off – just testing, seeing what Castiel likes. Much like the first time they had anal sex, when Dean went to some effort to make sure Castiel was relaxed enough.

Castiel learns he likes Dean to be forceful, sometimes. Other times, and Dean becomes better at finding them, he wants to be held close.

Dean is inside of him, fucking him hard. Castiel is on his hands and knees, his cock heavy between his legs. And it feels amazing physically, all jolts of sudden pleasure and dizzying sensation. But something – something – and Castiel asks, "Softer?"

All Dean does for a moment is freeze. But then he slips out, nudging Castiel's legs away and gently urging Castiel to lay on his side. He then comes up behind Castiel, hard cock slipping back inside of Castiel, and rocks. There's no way for him to get good leverage, so it's a slow build, a long build. Dean's chest is pressed against Castiel's back, his legs against the back of Castiel's thighs, and he breathes into Castiel's nape. Dean's hand lays on Castiel's waist, not touching his dick yet. It's not enough for Castiel to come, but that feels okay.

After nearly twenty minutes of that slow glide, Castiel's orgasm comes as a surprise. He cries out and comes, untouched, and then Dean follows him down.

"Good?" Dean asks.

"Hmm," Castiel says, trying to get out words. His eyes are closed, and opening them is beyond him. "Hmm, yes."

Deep in Castiel's mind, there is a part of him that flickers in resistance, in objection, in a desire to fight. It's during those moments when that rises to the front of Castiel's mind that he needs Dean to hold and comfort him, until it calms. If Castiel is to overcome himself and be happy, Dean needs to help him do it.

* * *

The day before Christmas, presents appear beneath the tree.

Dean was actually paying attention, because he used colorful paper that fit the silver and blue theme. There's several of different sizes, and Castiel picks up a few, shaking them a bit. A few rattle like there's something securely packed inside. Castiel goes to one of his reading spots and grabs the scarf he made. He'd only made the one, but he's incredibly out of practice with crocheting and he found himself constantly having to unpick loops and redo them. It drove him slightly insane.

He wraps it and adds it to the pile.

"Is that mine?" Dean asks, coming up beside him.

"Yes. And you will be happy whether you like it or not."

Dean laughs. "Of course I will. I have you. Do you want to open one up on Christmas Eve?"

Castiel considers. "All right. You pick?"

In moments, Castiel has a small one in his hands and Dean is smiling.

"Didn't take you long to decide," Castiel says wryly.

"Nope. Open it!"

Castiel is the type to rip through paper, making a complete mess, and so he can see the plain box in a matter of moments. He takes off the tape and the sides pop up.

Inside is a photo album.

The photos are mostly recent, and while a few have only Castiel, most of them have the two of them together, Dean awkwardly taking a selfie of them both. It's something he started doing only after the FBI caught him, and while Castiel has wondered why, it's been a distant question and so he's never asked it. He flips through, pausing when he sees one he likes. One of them both outside, with the sunset. A slightly blurry one of them in bed, fully dressed in winter clothes, Aditi in Castiel's lap with her long tongue lolling out of her mouth. Inexplicably there's one of Castiel eating pizza. He has red sauce on his chin.

"There's so few older than a few months," Castiel points out. "Why is that?"

Dean has a slightly guilty look on his face.

"Dean. Tell me."

"The FBI found my camera in my car. I had some backups, but only of a few."

Castiel sighs. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Dean open and closes his mouth. "I dunno, honestly."

"I'm not upset about the photos, Dean. I know what the FBI must think of me by now. The photos would only have confirmed it for them. I'm upset you didn't _tell me_. Dammit, Dean – you just –"

Dean smiles wanly. "Sometimes you want to strangle me?"

"Yes!"

"Sam would sympathize. Your brother, too probably. I bet he and Sam could go on all day, in fact."

Despite himself, Castiel smiles. "I'm still pissed at you."

"You're too forgiving, you know that?"

It's weird to hear Dean admit that so openly. Like Castiel shouldn't forgive him, even though that's what Dean always wants so desperately. "I'm fully aware. Dean … you have to promise me you won't lie to me. Lies of omission, white lies, nothing. Please."

Dean hesitates, but then he says, solemnly, "I promise."

They spend the rest of Christmas Eve watching silly holiday movies. Christmas Day is even more peaceful. No fights, and both are happy.

* * *

February ends up unusually cold, to the point that it even penetrates the bunker, which normally keeps a stable temperature from being underground. They end up piling more blankets on their bed and Dean starts making roasts and other heat-heavy, hearty meals. Castiel bundles up when he goes outside to his little garden, which is now fully hibernating for the winter. He sits on his rock and wonders how many years he will be here, watching this same sunrise and sunset.

Dean makes a burger and fries for dinner, looking antsy the entire time. Castiel asks him three times what's wrong, and when he still doesn't get a straight answer, he gives up and reads the newspaper.

"Sooo, I was thinking," Dean begins.

"That's always dangerous." Castiel keeps eating his fries.

"Not always, just a lot of the time. Anyway. We're running low on a few things, but just a few. So I was thinking of doing a supply run. A short one."

Castiel isn't sure why Dean is telling him like it needs justification. "Okay."

"With you."

Castiel freezes. "What do you mean, with me? Dean, I thought you said –"

"Do you still love me?" Dean asks.

Castiel stares hard at his plate before looking up. "Yes."

"Then that's enough."

Castiel doesn't know what to say.

"I was thinking we could do your spell, the one that extends your boundary for a couple of days. That'd give us plenty of time." Dean looks hopeful.

Castiel feels very small, and the like world is very huge. Like if he leaves the bunker, there will be a thousand options about what to do when Castiel has lived for so long with only one. He doesn't know if he can handle that. He loves Dean, and yet should he call out for help? Should he run? He doesn't know. And seeing other people – peoples besides Dean – is such a weird thought that it's almost frightening. At the same time, he craves seeing the outside world. He's been confined to the same few thousand square feet for more than a year, and though he allowed himself to be content with that, it's also the same thing he left his parents and sister for. But at last, he nods. "Okay."

Dean grins, bright and beautiful.

But he doesn't give Castiel time to adjust to the idea. As soon as they finish eating, he takes Castiel down to the infirmary and shows Castiel what he's been working on.

It looks farther along than before. It's all one piece now, and it looks like a flexible metallic strip. Inside of it is a tiny circuit board and something else Castiel doesn't immediately recognize. "What is it?"

Dean hugs him tight. "It's a GPS. Just so I can find you. I can solder it on to the cuff."

Some indescribable feeling rises. "Doesn't the cuff already have that?"

"A magical version," Dean explains. "It's like a compass; it doesn't tell me exactly where you are, only the direction you're in. That's why it took me so long to find you in the fields." He cups Castiel's face. "Cas, I love you. Sam and I had GPS on our phones for the same reason as this, so we could find each other. Hell, the only reason we didn't tag each other is because we worried someone would hack it or something."

Castiel nods, stomach dropping. But logically, he knows Dean is right. Especially if Dean ultimately takes him on a hunt. "It's fine." He smiles quickly. "I'm fine."

"You sure? Talk to me, Cas."

Castiel shakes his head. "Do you have to take the cuff off to get that on?"

"Securely, yeah. I was thinking I'd cuff you to the bed, like last time. Just so, you know, you don't have to think about anything."

"All right," Castiel agrees. In a way, it does make this easier; even knowing the GPS is there makes it easier. He's not exactly sure why it's easier, or maybe he doesn't want to admit that choices are starting to scare him.

Dean doesn't take him to their bedroom, though. He searches Castiel's face. "Please, Cas. Tell me if you need anything, okay? Talking or whatever."

Castiel forces a smile. "Dessert?"

Dean relaxes a little. "That I can do. Go to our bedroom, I'll get everything ready, 'kay?"

Castiel kisses him lightly, gives the GPS one last look, and walks out. Is it weird to so accept so quickly the necessity of being cuffed to the bed? He slows in the hallway and then stops entirely, placing his hand on the wall. Well, of course it is. But this entire thing is weird. Entirely out of the ordinary. Should his reactions be any different? It's not like even his kidnapping is like any other kidnapping, what with being more or less instigated by an angel, who thinks it's fate him and Dean should be together.

Forcing himself to keep moving is harder than he thinks it should be, but he manages to make it to the bed and waits for Dean.

Who comes in with handcuffs dangling from one finger, and a large bowl of chocolate ice cream. He smiles at Castiel and places the bowl on the side table. He takes Castiel's left hand and kisses his bare wrist, then locks the cuff in place. Then he puts the other end on the headboard. "Now," Dean says, "I have to insist I feed you by hand."

Castiel smiles despite himself. "Can't let it melt."

They finish it bite by bite, then Dean tries to turn on the TV – Castiel says he wants to read – and then Dean kneels beside him, looking a bit queasy for some reason, and says the spell. It's still gibberish to Castiel, and hard to memorize for that reason. Dean said in the past that even though he didn't think Castiel could do anything with it, he feared Castiel knowing the words to the spell. That suggests it's user-oriented, and only Dean can actually remove the spell.

Of course, there are other ways to destroy spells. Hex bags are powerful, but when scattered by a hand they become nothing more than their separate parts. Devil traps will hold powerful demons, unless a line is scratched through. It's occurred to Castiel that simply destroying the ankle cuff with sheer physical force would probably be enough. He doubts it's invincible. That doesn't seem to be the pattern, when it comes to magic.

Castiel flexes his foot when Dean takes away the cuff. "Feels weird," he says.

Dean looks uncomfortable, then sad. But he just nods and says, "Be back in fifteen minutes or so. Have to give it time to cool down, though, so you're stuck for an hour or two."

The book in Castiel's lap is a comforting weight. "Very well."

He reads three chapters while Dean is gone, relaxing with every word. It's non-fiction, and dense enough that Castiel has to really focus to grasp the subject matter, and that forces him to be single-minded. He absentmindedly twists his cuffed wrist, making sure to keep his muscles loose.

Dean returns fifteen minutes later, as promised, and curls up to Castiel without comment. He trails his fingers down Castiel's bare skin. The back of Castiel's hand, or right under the waistband of his pants, then up to Castiel's neck, thumb along Castiel's jaw before he strokes along the back of Castiel's neck. Just little touches like that, for nearly half an hour. When he finally puts his hand down Castiel's pants, Castiel is half hard, and it doesn't take much for him to bring Castiel to orgasm.

Castiel insists on waiting for his hand to be free, then puts one finger up Dean's ass and makes him come that way – Dean gasping Castiel's name and shoving down hard onto Castiel's hand.

It's quite satisfying. Castiel can understand why Dean loves to do it to him.

It also neatly distracts them both from thinking about tomorrow. Castiel carefully does not think beyond the fact that he loves Dean. He doesn't try to imagine what tomorrow will hold. Even if Dean isn't asking for those words that caused him to panic, there's something implicit there, a silent request just in the nature of Dean's desire to be close. And Castiel doesn't know the answer.

* * *

In the morning, breakfast is oatmeal and cut up fruit. Castiel can barely eat any of it, especially since they already put Aditi in her room for the duration of their leaving. Dean doesn't comment, doesn't say anything, instead he hugs Castiel long and hard.

"You ready to do the spell?" Dean asks.

"I'm doing it?" Castiel is a little startled.

"Yeah. I mean, you've done it before. I haven't." Dean shrugs. "I mean, I can if you want."

Castiel swallows. "No, I can."

Dean hands Castiel the ingredients – sage, rosemary, and a focusing crystal. The piece of quartz is even the same one Casitel had used before. It's like déjà vu to be holding them again, and even weirder to have Dean here, watching him do the spell that was Castiel's most successful escape attempt. Castiel's hands shake a bit as he arranges the rosemary and sage, and then blesses it with beer. Then he takes the quartz and walks in a circle, saying the words to the spell. The book lies on the floor near him, but he still knows the words.

At the last, 'relesen' (or release, in Middle English), there's a rush of wind in the windowless bunker.

Dean starts. "Did it work?"

Castiel licks his lips and nods. "That's what it did before. So yes, I think so."

Dean holds out his hand. "Let's see?"

Taking Dean's hand steadies Castiel a little, especially when Dean squeezes Castiel's hand tight and offers him a reassuring smile. Castiel doesn't even know why he's so nervous; isn't this what he wanted? What he's been fighting for? He spent almost a year trying to get this far, and now that he has it – even though Dean isn't letting him escape, it's so much closer to freedom – he's terrified. It's not agoraphobia, because he can go outside. But the same panic that twisted up inside of him when Dean wanted him to promise not to escape flutters within him now.

He meets Dean's green eyes. "Okay."

He follows Dean up the stairs to the kitchen, all the way to his boundary. Castiel's got it memorized within an inch, so when he slowly takes a step across, he knows the spell succeeded. He looks up at Dean and tries to smile. His mind feels fuzzy. He's not sure what to think, or what he's thinking.

"You're doing good," Dean encourages. "And hey, now I get to introduce you to Baby properly. Come on." He pulls Castiel through the foyer, which looks the same as it did a year ago.

Outside is the same grass and brush as in Castiel's yard, which is oddly reassuring. The road is black, and even blacker sits Dean's Impala. She gleams in the light, and it's very obvious how well maintained she is, even to someone like Castiel who considers cars to be simply tools. Dean drags him over and starts chatting excitedly about her horsepower and the history of Chevy Impala's ("Don't ever call those new ones Impalas. It's an insult, I'm telling you."). Castiel lets the words flow over him and lays his hand over the engine. It's still faintly warm, like Dean took her around the block, or the remote Kansas equivalent. Though Castiel has no personal history with this car beyond waking up in it the first time he saw Dean's face, he knows it far better as Dean and Sam's home. He's heard too many stories of their childhood to really see it as anything else, even if it was the instrument of his imprisonment. He could probably find their initials carved into it.

Dean leads him to the passenger side and opens the door. He lays a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Cas, you ready?"

Castiel slowly sits on the bench seat. It's not terribly comfortable, and there's no seatbelt. He stretches out his legs, though, and finds more room than he expected.

Dean jogs around the car and slips into the driver's seat. He grins at Castiel and gives him another quick kiss.

Then he turns the engine over, listening to her purr. "Hear that?" Dean asks.

Castiel tilts his head. "Yes."

"Wait til I open her up on the highway," Dean promises. He shifts the car into drive, but then pauses. "Cas?"

Castiel looks at him.

"Close your eyes. Relax. It's going to be hours before we're anywhere, okay?"

Following that command is both harder and easier than he expects. He knows the reason behind it, even if Dean won't admit it out loud; Dean doesn't want him to be able to triangulate where the bunker is. It's a smart precaution. But then, so many people do underestimate Dean. The FBI did, and that's why the BAU failed to capture him so many times. Castiel didn't undervalue Dean's intelligence, and he still failed to escape. Dean took multiple precautions against everything Castiel could try, and when one failed, another simply came into play. For all of his training, Castiel couldn't overcome Dean's planning.

And eventually, he stopped trying.

So he lays his head back and rests. The Impala is a relatively smooth ride, swaying a bit, not handling like a modern car at all. It's easy to give himself up to that, and combined with his lack of sleep, he drifts off.

He wakes up when a car horn blasts into his ear. He jolts upright, finding a dizzying amount of color.

"Cas! Sorry, that guy was an asshole," Dean says, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching out to Castiel. "You okay?"

Castiel swallows, ignoring Dean's hand and looking around. They're in a town. No, a city. The streets are wider, and there's a lot of cars on the road. Businesses deck every corner, full of bright color and blinding text. He sees two gas stations opposite to each other, advertising a price difference of five cents a gallon. There's a furniture store to the right, and a dry cleaning shop to the left. People are walking down the sidewalks, bundled up warmly. A bus pulls in front of them, and then slides over to the right at a bus stop. Dean drives past, saying again, "Cas? You with me?"

The sheer amount of people and buildings and color is enough to make Castiel's head hurt. He's lived in the bunker for so long that seeing so many conflicting colors and hearing so many conflicting sounds is overwhelming. His breathing picks up and he grips the door handle. "I'm – I'm fine. It's just so strange. To see people."

It's nothing like seeing people on a screen.

Castiel has the sudden urge to open the door and spill out into the street. Run. Terror meets that urge and kills it.

Dean's smile is clearly a bit pained when Castiel looks back at him. "I know. It's okay. Tell me if you need to slow down or anything, okay? I'm going to pull us into the grocery store."

Rossway Grocery is a large store, though Castiel's never heard of it. He wonders if it's a chain as Dean carefully maneuvers the car into a far away space. When the engine dies, the background noise of the city seems to get even louder. Hearing other cars – accelerating, stopping, a honk here and there – doubles upon themselves and makes a noise that Castiel finds he can't separate out. He can't filter. He feels like a deaf person suddenly able to hear, unable to cope with the torrent of information in any meaningful way.

He starts when Dean's hand lands on his shoulder, along with a puff of cold air. He didn't even see Dean get out of the car and come to Castiel's side, much less open the door. Dean pulls him out without saying anything, then hugs him tightly. Castiel presses his face into Dean's neck, into the rough jacket Dean wears, and clings. It's stupid and childish, but he can't stop himself.

"Shhh," Dean finally says. "It's okay. You'll be fine. It'll be good to see people, won't it? You just gotta relax a little."

Castiel nods, somewhat desperately.

Dean's hand finds Casitel's. Holding hands like that, he leads Castiel through the parking lot. A random woman walks out with her young daughter clinging to the hem of her coat, and she offers Castiel a bland, polite smile as her child tries to skip along.

The word _help_ rises in Castiel's throat, but remains silent.

Dean grabs a cart and guides one of Castiel's hands to it, so they're still touching even though Dean's pushing the cart. They wind through the fresh produce first. Castiel does his best to focus on the food, ignoring the people. He points at the strawberries and Dean grabs three boxes. "There you go," Dean says encouragingly. "Kiwis? I keep meaning to ask if you like those."

Throat tight, Castiel nods. Then he forces himself to say, "I do."

Two cartons of that.

Castiel points at shortcake, and Dean takes a few of those as well. Dean's nearly beaming with happiness, and Castiel can understand why. He has Castiel with him, and Castiel isn't running. Why isn't he running? He has no idea.

Maybe because he loves Dean? Because he knows how devastated Dean would be to lose him?

In the bread aisle, it occurs to Castiel that if Castiel ran right now, Dean would have to react. Would he pull a gun to keep Castiel here?

Dean's armed. Dean's always armed when he goes to the outside world. He was responsible for a gun and a child at nine. He has no fear of guns at all, and only caution prevents him from waving it around casually in public.

Would Dean fire at someone to prevent them from rescuing Castiel?

Would Dean beat him? Would he physically drag Castiel to the car and take off? Castiel knows the car is protected against people looking for it, especially if that interest is casual instead of directed. It's part of how Dean got Castiel out of his apartment so unseen, why none of Castiel's neighbors raised the alarm. How Dean got away clean. Would Dean get away clean again, if Castiel went to that employee restocking the canned beans and said, 'Call the police, this man kidnapped me'?

The employee finishes his job, shoots Castiel and Dean a smile and asks, "Need help finding anything?"

Words freeze in Castiel's throat.

"No, we're fine," Dean answers.

The employee looks at Castiel and sounds concerned when he says, "Dude, you okay?"

"PTSD," Dean says hastily. "He was a soldier. Y'know how that goes."

"Oh, yeah," the employee says, nodding. "'Course. My brother, too. It'll get better, man, don't worry," he tells Castiel.

Castiel manages to nod. That's appropriate. Nodding. So is PTSD. Castiel probably does have PTSD.

The employee leaves.

Dean lets go of the cart and puts an arm around Castiel's shoulders. He whispers, "I know this is hard. I know it is. But you can do this, Cas. It's okay. You're here with me, and I'm not leaving, and we'll go home after this."

Home. Castiel knows it's wrong, but he breathes easier. "Yes. Yes."

"Okay. Wheat or white?"

Castiel tries to focus on the dozens of bread options. "I don't know."

Dean grabs two of each kind. He's careful not to go more than two feet from Castiel at any moment, always making sure that Castiel is within arms' reach. It's calculated, Castiel realizes. For a second, it feels like his mind is breaking free, like the cloud of uncertainty is gone. Dean knows that Castiel is panicking, trying to decide what to do. By staying near him at all times, Dean reinforces the behavior he's encouraged in Castiel – for Castiel to consider Dean a safe haven, a comfort, a reassurance. A bulwark against a world that Castiel no longer remembers how to handle.

Because Dean took that from him.

But then.

Castiel loves Dean. Dean loves Castiel, deeply and desperately. That much is clear, too. Calling for help or running – just trying to reach for that is an uphill battle against the past fifteen months. He can't. He can't. And Dean is here, warm and comforting, giving Castiel gentle smiles and nudges, holding his hand. Castiel squeezes that hand tight, vision going blurry.

He barely makes it through the frozen section, barely noticing Dean pick up a pint of icecream. His mind is buzzing a disorienting mix of panic and need.

The cashier is a young woman with dark hair. She grabs the first item, the icecream, and then looks up at Castiel. Rather than give him that same bland, polite smile that is automatic to most in her job, she stares at him steadily for a few seconds. "Good afternoon," she says, "how has your day been?"

"Good," Dean answers.

She looks at Castiel again, as if waiting for him to reply.

"I – I – " Castiel can't finish. The cuff is heavy on his ankle, and cold.

She gives him a small smile. "That bad, huh?"

Some reservoir of strength comes to him then. "Yes. One of those days." He stares back at her, willing her to understand him somehow. See past those words, even though he knows she can't. She's the first meaningful human interaction he's had with anyone besides Dean in more than a year. He knows that as long as he lives he will never forget her face, or the way she had looked at him as if to make sure he really was all right.

Dean is like a taut wire beside him. "But we'll be going home," Dean says. "Relax the rest of the day away."

"That's what I plan to do," she says, her shoulders losing some tension. "Once my shift is over. That'll be 147.52."

"Gotcha," Dean says.

Dean swipes a card that doesn't have his name on it and the cashier finishes bagging their items. Once they're all in the cart, she flashes Castiel a smile and says, "I'm sure it will get better."

Castiel smiles back, instinctively.

Dean waits for Castiel to turn his attention back to Dean, and then guides Castiel outside. It's bright. A large family is exiting the car next to the Impala, five or six children chattering away as the two harried parents try to manage them. Castiel watches them, knowing that it's rude but unable to stop himself. He barely feels Dean maneuvering him to the car, only noticing when Dean opens the passenger door and gently sits Castiel down. Dean throws the rest of the groceries in the back seat, quickly. He leaves the cart at the parking space.

Once he's in the car, he turns on the engine. He shoots Castiel a brief smile. "Home."

Castiel nods, something easing in him. He's locked in. Dean's so close, and they're far from anyone else.

He watches the world slide by with the purr of Baby under him. When they approach the outskirts – Castiel can tell because of the larger and larger empty lots – Dean asks him to close his eyes again, and Castiel does. He listens to the quiet murmur of Dean's voice.

" – there was that time when we came through here in the middle of a prank war. You know, I've told you about those before. Well, this one was bad. Well, not that kind of bad – just, y'know, getting a little out of hand. Sammy and his ridiculous long hair were so incredibly annoying, Cas, I just had to do it. Pink hair dye. Told him it was permanent and he'd have to cut it off, though the box said just a few shampoos and it'd be gone, and man, he lost it. I think he almost keyed Baby, but I don't love even Sam that much and I think he knew –"

Both the thought of escape and the pressure of actually attempting it fade away. Dean will take him home and chain him again. Things will return to normal.

Castiel is happy with normal. It's not the life he chose for himself, but he can be happy. He knows that. Out there? He doesn't know.

It's dark when they return. Castiel noted the falling sun through closed eyes, the glare of the sun dimming until there's only the occasional flash of headlights. The car slows and then pulls over.

Castiel opens his eyes.

Dean smiles at him. "Hey there. You with me?"

"I'm with you," Castiel says.

"We'll go inside and I'll reset the cuff." Dean grins. "It'll force me to carry all this crap in by myself. Sound fair?"

Castiel just nods.

In a few moments, Dean's at Castiel's side of the car, helping him out. It's not necessary, Castiel's not hurt, but he still holds onto Dean like he'll fall if he doesn't. As always, Dean's there.

Dean settles him on his chair at the kitchen table and then kneels. He says more gibberish, his warm hands on Castiel's ankle, but Castiel can tell it's a different stream of words than the one that removes the cuff. There's no physical change, no gust of wind like the spell Castiel used earlier. "That's it?" Castiel asks.

Dean looks up and smiles at him. Dean always tries to smile, always tries to be kind and comforting. Castiel wonders sometimes if Dean ever tires of being the strong one, the care-taker. He knows that was the role he took on as a child, because of the failures of his father, but when Dean talks about Sam – Sam specifically in the last five or so years they were together – it really strikes Castiel as a partnership. Sam is no longer a child Dean cares for, or tries to order, or tries to control. In a weird way, for Dean, it was healthy. Or at least, healthier than it had been.

Castiel has rarely seen Dean vulnerable. Dean has revealed so much of his life, history, and emotion, but it's often been in the context of explaining instead of sharing. The only times Castiel's seen Dean really unshielded is when Dean is at his absolute height of fear with losing Castiel. And it's not even like Dean is trying to hide, he's just so focused on keeping Castiel and keeping Castiel happy.

"Well, I should –"

Castiel grabs Dean's hands and Dean stops. "Dean, what are you thinking?"

Dean blinks. "I'm not sure what you're asking."

"Why? Why are you doing this?"

Dean exhales slowly. "I know you can't give me an answer about – anything. I understand that. But I want to have you, and not just here."

"Are you afraid?"

Dean kisses him. "Terrified witless. But that's nothing for you to worry about."

"But what if it is?"

"Cas, I don't –"

"I don't want you to hide anything from me," Castiel says. "If – if we're really a couple, then you can't."

Dean is silent. Then, "I don't want you held here forever." He hesitates. "I don't want to be here forever, either. As much as this became our home base, me and Sam – our home was in the Impala. Not the bunker."

Castiel watches him, but Dean just looks at him steadily. "Okay."

This time when Dean rises to his feet, Castiel lets him. "I'll be back," Dean says softly.

As soon as Dean is out of sight, Castiel toes off his shoes and then his socks. He touches the cuff, which is faintly cold. Only when it's against his bare skin for a long time does it really warm up. He knows it's just the way metal is, that because it's a good conductor it always feels cold, but sometimes he thinks the cold is there for a reason, as a reminder. The strip that Dean had soldered on is slightly uneven, unlike the rest. He traces the GPS.

He didn't run. He doesn't know if he wants to. He doesn't know anything.

But that choice, or even the illusion of it, is gone. And Castiel is relieved.

* * *

He manages to stop thinking about it, for the most part. At least directly.

Instead, he watches Dean.

Dean, always working to make sure Castiel feels cared for. Dean, whose entire life revolves around Castiel. The reverse is also true, of course. In some ways, the outside world – even though Castiel has visited it, once – seems like it doesn't exist. There's only Dean and Castiel, living in a bubble.

There's something about that that rattles around in Castiel's head, but it hasn't come together yet.

It's a comfortable bubble, though. A happy one.

"What are you making?" Dean asks one afternoon, a month past the visit to the grocery store. He sinks into the space next to Castiel on the couch, looking tired and sweaty. And slightly dirty; Castiel can see some oil smeared on his cheek. He must have been doing car maintenance. Maybe he can convince Dean to take a shower with him.

"A blanket," Castiel explains, hefting the blue yarn. "So I can practice my stitches."

"Doesn't that take forever?" Dean asks.

Castiel shrugs. "Not if you're practiced. Though I suspect it will be summer before I get this one done, just because it's been so long since I did this regularly."

Dean puts his booted feet on the coffee table. "I have to admit, this is a skill I was surprised by. Anything else I should know about Castiel Novak?"

Castiel eyes him for a moment, then sticks out his tongue.

A bright burst of laughter escapes Dean, and then he's leaping on Castiel, smelling of oil and musk, and kissing Castiel hard. It's not a very good kiss because Castiel is laughing and Dean ends up sucking on his lower lip, then placing a hand on his chin and forcing it upward so he can kiss Castiel's throat. Without any warning, he bites where Castiel's neck meets shoulder, and Castiel makes a surprised noise.

Dean withdraws enough to look Castiel in the eye. "Can I bite you?"

"Bite me? What, hard enough to draw blood?"

Dean shakes his head. "Just, y'know. A little harder. I like to, sometimes."

In answer, Castiel exposes his neck.

Dean returns to the spot he'd bitten first, and worries it with his lips and teeth, hard enough to be just on the edge where pleasure meets pain. He's holding himself up with his hands, so he can't really touch Castiel otherwise, so Castiel sticks his hand down his own pants, awkwardly stroking his cock with most of his jeans still on. He's hard within a matter of minutes, pain radiating from his neck, but a heady arousal overriding it. "Dean," he moans, trying to maneuver his knee against Dean's dick.

"Can I?" Dean whispers into his skin. He shifts around until he's held up by one hand, the other meandering to Castiel's cock.

Castiel doesn't even know what he's agreeing to, but he pants, "Yes, yes."

Dean bites him hard, this time with enough force that Castiel thinks he's probably broken the skin. At the same time, Dean's hand moves on Castiel's cock, and the weird mix of sensation makes Castiel come all over Dean's hand. He pulses two, three times. Slick and wet and warm. He's gasping, neck tingling. After coming down from that high, Dean sucking on his throat, Castiel pushes Dean away and puts a hand to his neck, then looks to see if there's blood.

There is, just a little bit. He looks at Dean, more amused than anything, and says, "What, turning into a Deanpire?"

Dean laughs hard enough that he loses his standing, and falls on Castiel's stomach. His elbow makes a particularly painful impression and Castiel squirms. Then he decides to be proactive and actually knocks Dean off the couch. Dean looks up at him from the floor, wounded. "Cas."

"Pants off," Castiel demands, and then starts putting words to action. He's got Dean naked in less than a minute, and then fills his mouth with Dean's cock. Surprised pleasure dominates Dean's expression, along with a little bit of fondness. Castiel sucks hard for a couple of minutes, Dean already fully erect, and then stops long enough to wet two fingers with his saliva.

Dean puts his hands on Castiel's head and tilts his hips upward, giving Castiel access to his ass. Castiel pushes in one, then two. He sucks Dean's cock to the rhythm of his fingers, finding Dean's prostrate with some difficulty. But once he does have it, he strokes it repeatedly, hearing Dean say, "Oh fuck, yes, right there, oh Cas, everything you do is good, fuck, harder."

Less than five minutes later, Dean comes in Castiel's mouth, filling it with salty semen. Castiel swallows it all, fingers stroking the rim of Dean's entrance.

"Oh, Cas," Dean says, breathless. Then, after a few seconds, "You know, for being virgin to gay sex, you're a very quick learner."

"I've always been a quick learner," Castiel says, then takes the tip of Dean's cock in his mouth long enough to suck for a few seconds. He lets it fall, knowing Dean's probably too sensitive for more.

Dean smiles at him lazily, affectionately. Castiel grabs a blanket that's folded next to the couch and pulls it over them both, knowing that when their bodies cool after the heat of sex, they'll need it. Dean shifts one leg between Castiel's, heedless of the messy come on Castiel's belly. They tangle themselves together, with Castiel's head on Dean's chest.

He sleeps.

* * *

Two weeks later, Dean stumbles upon a nearby hunt. "It's a salt and burn. Unfortunately. I hate doing those in winter." Dean looks up from the newspaper. "Do you want to come?"

Castiel freezes.

Dean nods hastily. "You're coming. My decision. Got it?"

Castiel relaxes and nods. "When?"

"Tomorrow," Dean says. "Don't think about it, okay? It'll just be you and me."

The next morning, Dean provides Castiel with the ingredients to the spell again. Castiel completes the spell, again. Queasy panic rides low in his mind, and he follows Dean blindly to the car. Without being asked, he closes his eyes, and keeps them closed for hours. Even when Dean says he can open his eyes, he keeps his attention on the scenery, and ignores the signs and roads. He doesn't know what it says about him that he doesn't want to know where he is, that he doesn't want to use his own mind to triangulate the location of the bunker. Like even now, he fears that Dean will be caught if Castiel knows too much.

"You're mine," Dean tells him, as the sun begins to set after a day of driving. "Don't worry about anything, Cas." And Castiel begins to relax.

Dean pulls over to a rundown motel. Castiel actually gets a look this time, the half-there flicking 'vacancy' giving him enough light to see the name Yollada Motel.

Castiel stays seated until Dean opens the passenger door, offering his hand. Castiel takes it, mind fuzzy. He follows Dean blindly to the front desk. The clerk eyes him them both when Dean asks for one queen, then hands Dean an old, rusted key. Castiel takes it from Dean, fingers moving over the rough rust. The sensation is somehow comforting. Dean's hand on Castiel's back is gentle when he leads him outside.

"I think we should head straight for the cemetery," Dean says. "Check out the room after. Okay?"

Castiel nods, putting the key into his pocket. "All right."

Dean squeezes his hand. "You're doing good, 'kay?"

Castiel smiles weakly. Good? Because he isn't running from his kidnapper? But it's like as long as Dean is here, he can't conceive of escape. He's lived too long with the knowledge that he can't get away. That anytime Dean is close, there's the reminder of the cold cuff on his skin. Even now, it sits heavily on his ankle. He's still bound. He is. That's why he's not running. Or is it because he loves Dean? He could take off. He could cross the road and go to that diner and tell them to call the police. Dean would – could – probably drag him back before the they would arrive, though, cuff him in the car and reach the highway.

And Castiel would have failed again, bloody and bitter and weeping.

But Dean would be devastated if Castiel ever did escape, and Castiel seriously doubts he can, even if Dean left him alone long enough. Fear and longing and need have kept him bound as securely as his chain.

"No thinking, okay? I know that's like your MO, but you need to just go with it, Cas." Dean cups Castiel's face and kisses him. One hand traces the faint scar on Castiel's neck from his bite. "See? You're mine."

Castiel presses into Dean's body, shaking a little, and Dean hugs him tight. His muscles loosen as he repeats that phrase, _You're mine. You're mine._

Dean puts him in the car, and then they're driving down narrow, nearly abandoned roads. He watches the lights of the town and other cars fade, the darkness creeping in. The cemetery is every movie cliché of what a cemetery is, old with creeping vines and bare, twisted trees. A good portion of the gravestones are old and cracked, and a few in one corner have no text on them anymore. Dean gets as close as he safely can and then parks, the sudden silence disturbing after having had the soothing rumble of the Impala for so many hours.

It's very cold, as it is after nightfall. When Dean helps Castiel out of the car, he can see his breath fogging in the air.

Dean guides him to the trunk, and then with absentminded muttering, Dean finds all they'll need. A flashlight, an electronic lamplight, and a shovel. Plus salt, gasoline, and a box of matches. He hands half of that for Castiel to hold, and then takes the other half.

The cemetery is bigger than Castiel first expected. Castiel finds himself staring out into the dark, wondering if he could lose Dean if he ran hard enough. But he doesn't act; he follows Dean around as Dean checks all the gravestones for the one he's looking for.

"Kind of makes you wish they were in alphabetical order," Castiel comments, the first words he's spoken in hours.

Dean tilts his head back and _laughs_ from the gut, nearly dropping the shovel. "See? Sam said I was crazy, but it makes perfect sense to me!" He smirks at Castiel. "The ways in which I love you are never-ending, dude."

Castiel smiles back, softening.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean finds the grave. "Welp," he says, "time to suffer. I'll start."

Gravedigging is backbreaking work. Castiel finds himself a little surprised that people actually rob graves, considering the effort involved. He and Dean switch off every fifteen minutes, which is long enough to give a proper break without letting their muscles cool off and tighten up. The fact that Dean knows to do that tells Castiel that he and Sam got into a very familiar pattern when it comes to this kind of hunt.

There's a salt line around them, of course, but even when Dean hits the coffin, nothing shows up. It opens with a creak and a lot of leverage with the handle of the shovel, exposing bones. Castiel finds himself noting facts about the body immediately, seeing the faint marks that show she was stabbed to death. Her rib cage is damaged. That familiar sense of loss and drive to find justice rise in him. Her murderer was never caught, all they know is that she haunts the local library, and nearly killed a middle grade student who went up to the archives in the attic.

That was Castiel's job, once. And he was good at it. He rarely thinks about his job as a profiler anymore, but it gave him such drive and purpose. For a moment, he's blinded with tears; he's lost that.

"Cas, you okay?"

Castiel nods quickly. "At least we can give her peace."

Dean smiles sadly. "Yeah. I know it sucks, but I kinda figure … we all have different jobs in this world, you know?" He picks up the gasoline. "Most care for the living. We give peace to the dead."

The coffin is soaked, and then Dean hands Castiel a match. "You're very first hunt, you do the honors."

Castiel lights the match, and lets it fall. Flame bursts up, and then burns low.

Filling in the grave is easier, though by the time they're finished it's only a couple of hours away from dawn. They hit the road to return to the motel. The streets are totally empty now, and somehow that feels like a good thing. Nothing for Castiel to think about. It's not like he'd get far. He tries to shake the jitters and panic from his mind, focusing on Dean. Dean's got a rather large smudge on his forehead, and his rough hands are engrained with dirt. Maybe they should take a shower together.

Half an hour later, they're back at the motel.

"So," Dean says, "home sweet temporary home." He waves at the décor, which is water themed and incredibly tacky, and then locks the door behind him. "As you can see, nothing but the best."

Castiel eyes the large fish on the wall. It's plastic, but also looks like it could leap off the wall and eat his head. "I thought you were exaggerating about the motels you and Sam stayed at."

"Nope! I'm guessing you got the good hotels at the FBI?"

Castiel shrugs and sits on the bed. "Large chains of them, usually. Do you avoid those on purpose?"

"They tend to catch onto fake names and fraudulent cards a lot faster," Dean says, pulling out a chair and putting their one bag on it. "They keep more records. And they're more expensive. I'm not gonna lie, that's a problem. Until Charlie, er, helped out a bit, we got a lot of our money from credit card scams and hustling."

Castiel wonders about her, sometimes.

Dean sits next to him on the bed and places a hand on Castiel's thigh. He slips his other around Castiel's back, and then kisses him gently. When Castiel responds by deepening the kiss, relief flowing through him at the familiarity of it, Dean pushes him down to a prone position and then crawls on top of him, biting at his lips. He shifts from Castiel's mouth to his neck, working on giving Castiel a hickey while he puts his thigh between Castiel's legs and rubs it against Castiel's cock. Castiel shoves his hands under Dean's shirt, stroking up his stomach and then his pectorals, before running his hands down Dean's back to cup his ass.

With one last hard suck on Castiel's neck, Dean breaks off and asks, "Can I fuck you?"

"Thought we were trying you," Castiel says, shoving his hips up into Dean's so he can get more friction.

"I know, I know, I just – I want to have you, to know you're mine, even here," Dean says, a rush of words.

Dean wants to claim Castiel. Make Castiel his, again. Castiel's cock twitches at the thought of Dean being so desperate to have him, even as another part of him recognizes that it's more than possessiveness. That Dean wants to fuck him as a way of saying that Dean owns him, not just chained in the bunker, but even here with only a GPS tracker to hold him. It should be an uncomfortable realization, but instead it fills his cock. Dean desires him so badly, and all he wants is for Castiel to return that. And Dean's eyes are so soft, so loving and afraid. So Castiel says, "Okay."

Stripping is a hurried affair. Dean does himself first while Castiel lies on the bed and rubs himself through his jeans, then Dean is yanking off Castiel's clothing as well. The lube is in the bag, and Dean grabs it and slathers it on his hard cock before reaching between Castiel's legs. Out of habit, Castiel holds himself spread open, and Dean moans. "You look so hot like that," Dean says. "Wanting my fingers, my cock."

Two fingers off the bat, then three. Dean fucks him hard with those fingers as he holds the base of his cock, like he's trying to hold himself off from coming too soon. Castiel strokes himself with the same rhythm of Dean's hand.

Dean's lubed hands slides on Castiel's skin as he tries to help Castiel keep his ass exposed. With an irritated noise, he pushes Castiel onto his side. Castiel gets what he wants right away, rolling over onto his hands and knees, his ass pushed out. Without preamble, Dean's cock pushes against Castiel's hole, and he pops in. He shoves in the rest of the way without giving Castiel time to adjust, and Castiel's groan that time is partially pain.

"Sorry, fuck, I just have to have you," Dean says. "Oh, you're so tight. Always so tight, like you were made for me."

Then Dean fucks him hard. It's pleasurable, as it always is. Whatever pain there is blends with the pleasure so smoothly that Castiel can't tell the difference. He finds himself pushing back into Dean's thrusts, spreading his legs wider so he can feel more of Dean's body slapping against his. Dean falls silent, so the only sound in the room is of their two bodies meeting, the slick sound of Castiel's well lubed ass getting pounded into, and Castiel's moans.

It's familiar. Castiel knows sex with Dean so well, all the ways to respond to increase Dean's arousal, all the ways to tilt his hips to get more pleasure from the fucking. Dean is his captor, but right now he's Castiel's lover, and the rest of the hotel room fades away. It doesn't feel like Dean is fucking him to claim him, it feels like two lovers meeting. Castiel's cock is heavy between his legs, bouncing with each of Dean's thrusts. He doesn't touch himself; he knows Dean loves to make him come just from being fucked.

Dean arches over him, so his stomach is against Castiel's lower back, giving Castiel short and powerful thrusts as he covers Castiel with his body. He reaches around and grips Castiel's hard cock, dripping pre-come. Then he whispers, "You're mine, please be mine, Cas, please."

"I'm yours," Castiel says for the first time.

"Oh, Cas," Dean mutters into his back, kissing it, and then comes.

Castiel touches his own cock, but Dean bats his hand away. "Dean," Castiel groans.

"Hold on," Dean says. His cock slips out, semen sliding down Castiel's balls. Then he turns Castiel over and pushes three fingers into Castiel's ass while he sucks down Castiel's cock. Four or five thrusts and Castiel's coming in his mouth, Dean swallowing it all. When he pulls off, he's smiling. "See? I take care of you."

Castiel exhales, body tingling. "Hmm."

Dean's fingers press into him, stroking his prostrate.

"Dean!"

With a laugh, Dean finally pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets. "I love seeing you react, what can I say?" He crawls up next to Castiel and says, "I love you."

Castiel's relaxed for the first time since the trip began when he says, "I love you, too."

Dean gets up once, to grab a wrist cuff with a long chain to it, so Castiel can sleep comfortably and securely. Then he curls around him, and they sleep, still filthy.

In the early morning, Castiel wakes up to find Dean's already inside of him, thrusting shallowly. Dean fucks him – no, Dean makes love to him like that, with Castiel on his side with one leg being held up by Dean. Dean strokes Castiel's stretched rim where his cock is buried in Castiel's body, like he's admiring the view. He tugs on Castiel's balls gently and then fists Castiel's cock, stroking him in time to his thrusts. Castiel comes first, semen spilling over Dean's hand, and then Dean fills him up with a moan and the words, "You're mine."

As soon as Castiel is uncuffed from the bed, Dean never leaves Castiel alone for even a moment. The bathroom door remains open, with Dean pushing it open when Castiel tries to close it to piss. Dean just watches him, a faint smile on his face, and Castiel pushes down the discomfort. Dean's never tried to take away that particular privacy before. After, he asks, "Can I take a shit in private?"

Dean flushes. "Of course, yeah. Sorry. I know I'm freaking out. I just never thought we'd be here, even six months ago."

When they go to checkout, Dean lets him say goodbye to the clerk, watching.

And then Dean sits him in the Impala and takes him to the bunker. And there, Dean places his hands on Castiel's cuff, says the words, and then Castiel is home.

* * *

Castiel is the one to find the next hunt. It's a larger pattern, one that the BAU would never have caught because it dealt with car crashes. On a road in Colorado once a year there's always a fatal car crash that kills at least the driver, and often all the passengers. For five years, someone has died, and that time of the year – April 19th – is coming up in a matter of days. As an FBI agent, Castiel would have called it an eerie coincidence.

But as a hunter, anything eerie deserves a second look.

Six years before, a husband and wife got into an argument on that same road. It was raining, and the husband, the driver, crashed. The wife wasn't wearing a seatbelt, was thrown through the front window, and spent twenty minutes bleeding out while the husband was unconscious. Dean figures the combination of events left a ghost who's reliving the fight and then the crash, forcing strangers to play through her death, unwittedly or not.

The hard part is that she was cremated, and all her personal property was destroyed by the grieving husband. She's attached to something, but that could even be the road, and they can't exactly effectively salt and burn that. Which means the only way to get rid of her ghost is an exorcism ritual, preferably on the night in question for maximum effectiveness.

Castiel expects Dean to pass it off to someone else, and Dean tries, but there's no one in the area. The one hunter Dean tracks down who's close is dealing with a nest of vampires, who are making a resurgence in the area.

"I could take you," Dean says reluctantly. He eyes Castiel. "You could do with getting out."

Castiel tucks himself under the covers. "It's up to you," he says at last. It's not a decision he wants to make, going outside. It's too close to a question he doesn't want to answer. He offers Dean a smile. "I'll be fine either way."

"I don't wanna leave you here," Dean admits. "I want you close. I just, y'know, it's stressful for you."

"I … I do like to see people. Life." Castiel smiles wanly. "But it's up to you," he repeats.

Dean kisses him lightly, then searches Castiel's face. "Okay. You'll come. I trust you." And then he hugs Castiel, and Castiel clings to him. Weirdly, he feels both guilty and honored by Dean's words.

They leave the day before, so Dean can do the ritual during the day. Castiel watches the night clerk go through the motions with a bored expression, and again, the thought pops up that he could ask for help. He glances at the door. He could run out of that. But Dean would catch him in a matter of moments. Dean never leaves him alone.

Castiel relaxes into that thought as Dean leads him to their room. With Dean holding his hand, even the patrol car that drives down the street is easy to ignore, even if Dean does tense up and block Castiel from view.

Dean holds Castiel all night despite the long cuff chaining him to the bed, and there's more fear than love in his tight grip.

* * *

Waking up is surprisingly hard. Castiel doesn't have the delicious smell of Dean's breakfasts to bring him out of his usual fog. Not even coffee. Dean, of course, can't leave Castiel alone. He doesn't take him to diners, either, only using drive-throughs to get them both fed during a hunt and he was antsy even during those. Trying to watch Castiel while not appearing obvious about it.

Dean strokes his hair back from his forehead, kisses him there fondly, and then says, "Time to get up, lazybones."

"Hmrph." Castiel squints at Dean. "Food?"

"I brought some cold sandwiches," Dean says. He gives Castiel a slightly put out look. "I even got creative, for your sake. Cream cheese and salmon, with cucumber. Sounds gross, but all the websites said it tastes surprisingly delicious as a cold meal." Dean's expression shifts to a grin. "I spoil you."

Castiel smiles back. "You do." He rubs his eyes. "Bottled coffee?"

Dean laughs. "You know me too well." He hands Castiel two bottles of cold coffee, then moves to get up from the bed.

Castiel pulls him back for a kiss. "Thank you, Dean." He sips the coffee and pokes at the sandwich while Dean gets the laptop open and ready. Just like the first time, Dean kept his phone and laptop in a locked compartment while they slept, making it impossible for Castiel to use them to communicate without Dean knowing about it. Of course, Dean has the key, but he hides it somewhere weird every time, not allowing Castiel to look. Castiel doesn't mind the precaution; the fact that Dean thinks these things through means that Castiel doesn't have to think about it.

Fear it, or hope for it.

While the laptop boots up, Dean eats his sandwich, making a curious noise the first time he bites into this. "Oh man. Sam would've loved this." He pauses. "Actually, Sam probably had this at some point. That freak."

Castiel laughs. "I'm sure Sam is saying 'I told you so' from heaven."

Dean points at him. "I bet you he is." The laptop beeps when the operating system loads, and then Dean is swiping his finger around and typing. He chews as he does it, leaving crumbs everywhere. Fortunately, laptop cleaning is not part of Castiel's chores.

"What are you looking up?" Castiel asks, standing up. He shivers in the cold air and puts on boxers and a pair of clean jeans.

"Making sure the info is still the same," Dean says. "Just in case."

Castiel sets to eating his food, which is just as good as Dean said it would be. He prefers hot coffee over cold, but caffeine is caffeine.

"Well, fuck," Dean says, running a hand through his hair.

"What?"

"There's a problem," Dean tells him. "The road in question is has road construction on it. There'll be dozens of people there until seven, just before sunset. Then they're opening the road again. Fuck. The exorcism will have to be at night. I wanted it to be close enough to the date and time she'd be there for sure, but this?" Dean shakes his head. "Not good."

Castiel tilts his head. "But we can arm ourselves with rock salt, right? It keeps ghosts away?"

Dean bites his lip. "Technically, yeah. But you'd need to have a shotgun to defend the line. And I – I'm not sure I want to give that to you."

Castiel swallows, the sandwich suddenly dry. "I wouldn't hurt you."

"I know, I know, that's not what I meant. I just – this is hard for you. I know it is. You were a great FBI agent, I saw your record, but you've never hunted." Dean frowns darkly. "It's dangerous. I should have left you at home."

Castiel considers that. "You have time to think about it. It's what –" he looks at the digital clock on the night stand, "ten in the morning? That's nine hours."

Dean leans back in the dilapidated motel chair. "Yeah, you're right. At least the prep hasn't changed, just the schedule." Dean offers him a small smile. "What do you say to relaxing for a couple of hours?"

"We could also do something less relaxing," Castiel says with a raised eyebrow, sitting on the bed.

Dean gets up and kneels before Castiel, cupping his face and kissing him. This time, the smile on his face is wide and genuine. "I love you."

* * *

Dean claims Castiel again, coming inside of him and then sucking Castiel's cock and swallowing. It leaves Castiel tingling in a very pleasant way, and wipes away even the small, hidden thoughts of escape. It deadens the words _Hold out. We're coming for you._ Instead, Castiel is filled with an odd kind of contentment. One that's been building since the first time Dean brought Castiel out of the bunker. Castiel still doesn't have an answer for the question Dean has, but he's managed to stop thinking about it. Stopped thinking about calling for help, stopped thinking about initiating his own rescue.

They watch movies on the bed for hours. Dean orders pizza by delivery, and answers the door while Castiel bundles under the covers.

After the pizza has been decimated, Dean curls around Castiel's naked body and says, "I'm proud of you."

Castiel looks away from the commercial on the screen. It's been so long since he's seen one that it's actually novel instead of annoying. "Hmm?"

"The police car, last night. You didn't even twitch when he drove past."

He's right. The words spill out before Castiel can stop them. "You've broken me."

Dean freezes. He shifts around in bed so he can look Castiel in the eyes. "You're not broken, Cas. And I wouldn't want you to be."

Castiel closes his eyes and pushes his head into Dean's chest. Dean's arms automatically wrap about him, pulling him even closer. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't want to speak. His own words echo back to him instead, and he can't see the lie in it. Dean broke him, even if he did it lovingly. He cries silently for a while until his mind gives into the exhaustion of that and he begins to doze.

When the sun lowers in the sky, Dean gets out of bed. He putters around, doing something, and then returns to urge Castiel to sit up and get dressed. "Cas. I'm going to leave you in the motel room. I should only be gone two hours, max. Cas, look at me."

Castiel meets Dean's green eyes.

"Do you want me to cuff you to the sink?" Dean asks.

There's not a way Castiel can answer that. "I don't know."

"I'd prefer not to, in case something happens. This isn't the bunker. But you _can't leave_ , Cas. Do you understand?"

Castiel nods.

"I love you," Dean says slowly and sincerely. He kisses Castiel softly. "I trust you."

Castiel kisses Dean back, but with a lot more force like if he pushes hard enough he can melt into Dean, that Dean won't go. He grabs one of Dean's hands and puts it on his half-hard cock, and Dean's hand pushes into his pants and begins to stroke him, thumbing the head, pushing against the slit. Castiel moans and rocks into Dean's hands. He's not entirely hard, and Dean has to sit there with him for ten minutes, stroking his cock and kissing him and whispering comforts, until Castiel is finally able to come.

"Stay for me," Dean says.

Castiel nods silently, cock still hanging out of his pants. Dean puts it away for him and kisses Castiel's nose lightly, making Castiel huff half a laugh.

"I'll be back soon," Dean promises.

Castiel watches as Dean grabs everything he'll need from the motel. Most of the supplies are already in the car, in the trunk with all of Dean's tools and weapons.

Dean gives Castiel a fond smile, then he's gone.

The motel seems to change.

The garish green walls seem dark and confining instead of vaguely silly, and the hum of the air conditioner is suddenly loud. Castiel sits on the bed and curls his legs until his knees are under his chin, staring down at the comforter's weird shade of brown. Panic and anxiety suddenly become very strong. He leaps off the bed and checks all the salt lines. They're all intact. He starts examining the room, looking in all the small, tight spaces that hex bags are kept. Dean kept him unbound because he wanted Castiel to be able to defend himself, if he had to. That means Castiel has to keep himself alert. This isn't like the bunker, where he's safe.

He pauses when he checks the door frame. It occurs to Castiel for the first time that he could run.

But Dean saying, _I trust you_.

And if he did? Dean won't be back for hours. If Castiel went somewhere with a lot of people, Dean wouldn't take the risk of using force to get Castiel back. As a hunter, not a serial killer, Dean wouldn't get bystanders hurt. Not even to keep Castiel. It's against his code. He'd only take an innocent life to save countless others, and Castiel knows Dean well enough to know Dean's own life doesn't count.

"No!" Castiel shouts into the silence. The air conditioner stops humming. "Stop it," he tells himself, pacing back and forth in front of the desk. "Stop it."

If. Dean would realize Castiel was gone. Even if Castiel didn't delay in telling them where the motel is, if he timed it right Dean would get away. Dean's smart. Dean's car is covered in hiding spells.

"But you would hurt him," Castiel whispers. He stares at his wrists, and wishes Dean had left him cuffed to the sink in the bathroom. That'd have held him. Long enough, anyway.

The thought drifts up anyway: Dean is stronger than he thinks. He survived two years without Sam, and without Castiel. Dean wouldn't break any further than he already has. And Dean is broken; Castiel loves him, but he's not blind. And yet, Dean functions through it, living a life so much harder than the one Casitel led. All of the danger, none of the backup. Castiel, if he could only squash this line of thinking, could be Dean's partner.

That's what Dean's wanted. What Castiel has fought for so long, because it's not his choice, but if he chooses it now, is it real?

But this. Being alone in a strange place. Four walls and a door. Unlocked. Without boundary.

It's so far outside their bubble of happiness, their bubble in which nothing of the outside world can be sharp enough to pierce. That notion rattles again, but this time the disparate parts are beginning to come together.

He starts hyperventilating, even as he can feel understanding on at the edge of his mind. He crawls to the bed and curls up on his side.

Even as Castiel has allowed himself to fall in love with Dean, and Dean has fallen in love with him – Dean isn't coping well. Not with the risk of Castiel leaving. Dean's deepest fear is to be abandoned, and his soulmate is in such a situation that that fear will always remain. Their relationship as it is will continue to exert that pressure on Dean's psyche.

The thought hits Castiel hard: Dean isn't free.

Neither of them are.

They are trapped in their circumstances and by the choices they have both made. Dean, to take Castiel, and Castiel, to submit to it.

They will continue to play out their parts, with Dean as the captor who fears his victim's escape and Castiel as the victim who can't reconcile loving his captor with the desire for freedom. They will have their happy home life, but it will be forever tainted by the cuff on Castiel's ankle. As it has been. As pain has mixed with love for Castiel, and love mixed with fear for Dean. Oh, they fight it. Dean fights it with every loving care he gives, with every inch of freedom he provides, with sparring with Castiel to make Castiel forget the blood and bruises behind escape attempts. Castiel fights it with learning to trust, learning to give up. Love shouldn't be mixed with despair.

Castiel lays on the bed, alone.

Alone for the first time while unfettered. He slides his pant leg up, fingers skimming along the cuff. He's been too ashamed to write Balthazar, because what could he say? That he's given up? That he's not fighting for his brother anymore, only fighting to keep himself sane with Dean? But, Castiel realizes, it's not even that. His brother wouldn't be ashamed. He would be desperately hurt, not for himself, but for Castiel, his independent-minded little brother. The one who gave up everything, even the family he loved, even the safety of his life, simply for freedom. To see the world.

Castiel rises to his feet.

Escape was to get back to his life. That was the driving force behind it for so long. His job, surprisingly enough, fell first to Dean. His freedom second. His brother third, and last.

On the wall is the map Dean placed there last night. Castiel traces the road names that he didn't bother to note on the way in until he finds the motel he's in. His finger skims along the paper, touching upon large buildings.

He pauses and turns. He walks to the nightstand, and picks up a pen.

The map waits. Names blur. _I trust you_. Castiel blinks, and they become clear. He finds the building he's looking for and uncaps the motel pen. He writes three words.

He traces them, the words smudging. He drops the pen, shaking. The door to the parking lot is ten feet away. It feels like a thousand miles. The first step stings of betrayal. He imagines Dean coming back and finding him gone, and it _hurts_. Deep in his heart and spreading to the marrow of his bone. He stops.

Then he starts again. He imagines being unchained, being able to go where he pleased. He imagines the wide world that waits for him. He imagines Balthazar, he imagines holding his brother in his arms. He imagines the clarity of what he once had, of purpose, of countless sleepless nights going over a file, talking to witnesses, and comforting victims.

He imagines himself lost to Dean, lost to the life Dean chose for him, the one that imprisons them both. He doesn't want it, he realizes. He wants _Dean_ , yes. But not like this. Maybe he's not broken.

Castiel's hand closes around the door knob. "I'm sorry," he says out loud, and then twists and pushes.

He has to do this. For Balthazar, even for Dean. But most of all, for himself.

The barest hint of a smattering of stars lights the just-darkened sky. He sees more than a dozen people walking around, going about their normal, daily lives. A tired-looking maid enters another room. A laughing boy and girl head for a car. Someone drives in and parks badly, taking up two spaces.

It's absolutely terrifying.

Castiel is trembling when he takes the first step out into the cold air. Two, then three, and he stumbles, nearly falling.

A teenage girl walking on the sidewalk stops and takes a few hesitant steps backwards and asks, "Are you okay? You look really pale, do you need me to call someone?"

Castiel looks at her, and then shakes his head. "No, I'm – I'm going to walk."

She nods, gives him a polite smile. "Okay. Better walk fast, though, it'll be cold." And then without waiting for a reply, she rushes back to wherever she's going.

The first mile is a mess of color and sound. There's in an urban area of the city, so all the buildings are close enough together to create patchwork of lives. Castiel walks for nearly an hour. The steady motion is soothing, and strange. He's so used to having to turn every few hundred feet, either completely around, or walk in a curve to avoid the boundary. He hasn't walked in a straight line in so long it's like his body has almost forgotten how.

But his mind remembers.

This is how things were once. Castiel was nearly fearless in those days, unlike the frightened shell he's become, terrified of the simplest things because none of them were the life Dean has taught him to live. Once, Castiel took walks at three in the morning, a gun on his hip, and thought no more of it than going to get coffee. Castiel's stride lengthens. Once, all the simple things in life were simple.

That last thought drives Castiel through the last mile.

A cold, modern building is Castiel's stop. He presses a palm against the reinforced glass of the door, cold leaching through to his hand. He hesitates. Then he takes a deep breath and pushes it open, warm air flowing over him. The door swings shut behind him.

There's a desk, with a police officer sitting behind it. Doors with key panels and codes are around her; beyond her is the center of the police activity in the city. The police station. Dozens of cops are here.

The officer looks up at Castiel and asks, "Can I help you, sir?"

Castiel puts his hands on her desk, feeling weak. He's shaking like a leaf in the wind, but he's determined to speak the truth. "Y-yes. I need help."

After eighteen months of captivity, Castiel is finally free.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN:** Dean's perspective at last! I had a hell of a time with this chapter, because I've actually never done a story from two perspectives before like this, where I cover the same events through two sets of eyes. Working within the confines of Cas's story to tell Dean's was ... hard. :p In the end, I chose to cover some scenes from Castiel's POV from Dean's, and skip others. I also have new scenes that either Castiel doesn't remember, wasn't present for, or didn't consider very significant. I have tried to 'remind' you of events in the story without always summarizing them, in order to keep the chapter shorter. (Plus, summaries tend to be boring.) I know a few of you have been rereading the story, this will help you here. :)  
 **Warnings (spoilers!):** Kidnapping, dubious consent to sex (including sex initiated while one party was asleep), alcoholism, suicidal ideation, graphic almost-suicide scene with a gun.

Feedback is loved! 

* * *

Dean doesn't usually hang out after a job is done.

Especially now that Sam is gone. Victory over some slimeball monster has lost a lot of its appeal, both because he has no one to share it with, and because losing Sam meant Dean was lost, too. He knows that despite his promise to his brother, he's really just going through the motions. Even finding some pretty girl (or guy) after a hunt is something he rarely does anymore. So instead of going to the bar and celebrating another kill, he makes sure that stupid wendigo doesn't have a partner. Wendigos like to keep to a spot, not have two kill sites. So after torching the one, he wanders around the woods for a few days in the general area of the other one he'd found. He starts drinking halfway through, which is damn dangerous, but hunters die on jobs all the time. Sammy'd be pissed, yeah, but he'd get over it.

It's morning and he feels like a hungover piece of shit when he first hears about the FBI rolling in.

"Yeah, got the FBI's behavioral team here," the cop comments to her partner while Dean stares at his rapidly cooling omelet. "Took over the conference room, got us all on the lookout for some Winchester guy they've been trying to catch for years."

Dean squeezes further into the diner's booth and cups his face as if to inhale his hot coffee.

"Know it alls," the other cop decides. "I mean, they seem nice enough, but …"

The voices trail off and then end when the door swings shut. Dean lets his hands fall. He hasn't gotten much heat from the FBI for a year or two. Not really since Sam passed. Maybe Dean's losing his touch. He smiles mirthlessly into his coffee, looking at his dark reflection.

Wait. FBI. BAU.

Castiel.

He's not much more than a name and a file to Dean. After Anna spilled the beans about some random guy being Dean's romantic soulmate, he asked Charlie to get him all the info she could on him. Castiel's paper trail reads kind of like some hero you'd see on the big screen. Slightly large family, older brother died heroically in the military, then he goes onto be a brilliant cop with multiple commendations to an FBI agent with multiple commendations. There's not even anything bad in his performance reviews. The worst Dean ever saw was that Castiel had a hard time fitting in socially. The words 'stilted' and 'career driven' were used.

Well, and there's his picture from his driver's license, the first glimpse of his soulmate's face. A somber face, staring into the camera with a slight smile. It's not precisely fake, the surgary kind people do for a good photo. More like Castiel's privately amused by something, and letting you see a peek of it. Dark hair, looks black in some lighting, and deep blue eyes. Not the pale icy kind, either, but the color of the sea. Suit. Ties.

Some random photos from his brother's facebook gave Dean a look at him in jeans and a t-shirt, slim and fit. Dean chose not to act on it. Castiel just seemed like a fairly normal dude with a weird name, with no connection whatsoever to the supernatural.

Sam passed a few weeks later. Dean knows he's been drowning after since.

But he asked Charlie, about six months ago, to do an update on Dean's file on the guy. Staring at white, blank walls by yourself with the TV blaring will do that kind of thing to you. And frankly, there's only so much deep thoughtfulness provoked by beer that a guy can stand. So, Castiel became a more interesting topic for Dean to be depressed about. And Castiel'd joined the BAU six months before, transferring out of the blue. No reason that Dean can find, though he's sure there's one. He didn't consider that Castiel might one day be sent to catch serial killer Dean Winchester, though he should have, because that shit is just Dean's luck.

His soulmate is in town. Of course, said soulmate wants to put his ass in prison, not fuck it, which is a problem, but Dean's always a man with solutions. He'll just take a look from a distance. Yeah. If he gets caught, he can pray to Anna, and if she doesn't get him in time, well so what?

Mind made up, Dean shoves the rest of the eggs in his mouth and burns his mouth on the coffee.

* * *

The first wendigo kill site has been turned into a crime scene. Dean knows the area fairly well now, since hunting down the wendigo, so he knows to take the back road and then hike to the area. It's been a full day and a half, so he doesn't expect to necessarily find the BAU present. More likely there will be crime scene techs. But it's the easiest and probably safest place to check first, because Dean doesn't go back to his crime scenes, and the BAU would know that.

It's a somewhat hilly area with some small caves among the old trees. It's a messy forest, not the kind you see in film – there's fallen logs everywhere, twigs just waiting to be stepped on, and uneven ground with large rocks. Dean has to be careful to get through without making noise. He manages to get a vantage point where he can look down at the clearing. He'd burned the wendigo about thirty feet from the pile of bones.

About ten techs are swarming the kill site, and one jacket that says 'FBI' on it. The fellow is wandering, keeping out of the techs' way, but definitely meandering and just – looking.

The FBI agent turns. It's Castiel.

His hair is ruffled from the wind. Bed hair, really. Dark brown. It's not remarkable, but Dean finds himself staring at the way Castiel runs his hand through his hair, messing up cowlicks. Dean can't see his eye color from here, but he gets a good look at Castiel's high cheekbones and his beautifully shaped mouth. He looks different in person, more alive and more attractive. The features that had read slightly odd in a photo are now exotic.

Castiel bites his lip and Dean squirms a bit, surprised to find himself half hard. Fuck. What the hell?

He wants to go down there and touch Castiel. Talk to him. If Dean had seen him in a crowd, he'd have felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to go over and talk to the guy.

But he can't. Castiel would arrest him instantly. Dean tears his gaze away from Castiel and leans against a tree, breathing hard and trying to will himself soft. His skin is hot, but he shivers.

But maybe … maybe Dean could arrange some kind of situation so they could meet. It's not logical and it's not safe, but the desire to see Castiel and talk to him is overwhelming. Fuck, this was a bad idea. Now he's gone nuts. He should have known, Sam fell for Jess as soon as he met her, and he's been so fucking entangled with Sam his entire life – soulmates are a desire and a drive and an addiction. And now that he's seen Castiel, it's undeniable. But. He could talk to Castiel, that would be good, right? He could do that. Maybe tie him up to avoid the whole arrest scenario.

No, it's stupid. The guy's living a normal life. Just meeting Dean could fuck with that.

After all, soulmates share a heaven. He'll meet Castiel then.

Dean turns and peeks around the tree trunk, looking to find Castiel, but there's only techs. Dean straightens and looks more carefully, but no. Castiel's definitely gone. He left in the middle of Dean's freakout. And as stupid as it is, as foolish as it is, that hurts. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, cursing himself and the world. "Fuck me," he whispers.

But a doubt niggles at Dean's mind, something Anna said. Those weeks are tainted by the endless images of Sam weakening and dying, but he'd asked Anna questions at the time about how the whole mess in heaven worked, because he wanted to be sure he'd be with Sam. Soulmates have to meet in order to definitely share a heaven. Some share one anyway, but not all. That's why she told him, why Sam encouraged him to see Castiel and talk to him (safely and anonymously, of course, which is no longer possible). If he doesn't take this chance, he'll lose out on knowing his soulmate not just in this life, but for eternity.

He imagines meeting Castiel's eyes and Castiel looking back at him. That same thoughtful look he gave Dean's supposed crime scene.

Dean knows what he has to do.

* * *

Castiel stays in town for a week. Dean stays with him, shadowing him carefully. He observes and memorizes every habit, every preference Castiel shows – coffee, food, clothes, biting his lip when he's thinking. The finger tapping when he's reading. The way he smiles, soft and quiet, with his team members. Finally, Dean sees the BAU head for the airport en masse.

Over the next three weeks, settled in the bunker with a lot of coffee and a lot of whiskey, Dean investigates every part of Castiel's life.

Every detail he learns makes Castiel more real to him – that Castiel spoke to recruiters for the military, but didn't join after his brother. That he once kissed a guy in college. The six serious girlfriends he's had (no boyfriends that Dean can find, but he is in law enforcement, so that kind of thing isn't advertised), all of which seemed to have ended because Castiel put his job before the relationship. Funnily enough, they're also all still friends with him on facebook. It does take Dean flirting with some random high school friend on Castiel's friendslist to get access to Castiel's, but it's worth it. Castiel doesn't really post, but other people tag him in photos, including his brother.

He learns that Castiel was put on loan to the BAU before joining as a team member, though of course the exact case isn't publicized. He finds a few mentions in newspapers of cases Castiel's worked, both as a police officer and as an FBI agent. A few record searches give Dean all of Castiel's previous addresses, as well as his current one. His number and address are unlisted, but hacking the DMV database isn't hard.

A room in the bunker becomes the unofficial Castiel research center. It has all of the files Charlie got him from two years ago, and the second set from six months ago. He puts pictures of Castiel on the walls. That small smile and deep eyes seem to follow him. He sits there for maybe twenty minutes every night, just absorbing Castiel.

It's creepy as hell, and Dean knows it. He justifies it by telling himself it's just for organization. If he wants to talk to Castiel without being caught, this is how he'll do it.

He decides to take Castiel to the bunker. That will give him a few days to talk to Castiel properly, especially if Castiel starts out by threatening him and talking shit, which honestly is fairly likely. Dean knows that if he were in that position, he'd lie his ass off on sheer principle. Castiel has no reason to think that Dean just wants to know him, because he's still living in a world without magic, without the supernatural, and without soulmates. Oh, and Dean's a psychotic serial killer. So, Dean's going to have to give Castiel time to adapt so they can actually talk. Sure, Castiel will still think he's crazy. But Dean might get somewhere. He wants to know Castiel before he kicks the bucket.

It's not a sex thing, or not exactly a sex thing. Castiel would never consent to that, and Dean's no rapist, so that's out of the picture. No, he wants to know Castiel's mind. His heart. The person that fate made for him. Or God. Who the fuck knows, really.

He feels ill when he finds the manacle. It takes him two hours to work up the guts to put the bolt in the floor of a few bedroom a few doors down from his own.

It's just temporary. Dean has to remember that.

He repeats that to himself when he sits outside of Castiel's apartment, fifteen minutes from Quantico. It's a quaint building, five stories high and clearly built fifty plus years ago. He feels fairly secure right now – he's got hex bags and spells all over the Impala designed to hide her from anything but extremely directed focus, and Castiel's not going to think Dean Winchester followed him home. He watches the sun rise over the apartments, red and orange fading into a light blue. About half an hour later, Castiel leaves the building for his five year old sedan, which is a travesty of engineering. His soulmate doesn't have good taste in cars, clearly. He's bundled up in a black wool coat, but his hair is still wet. Someone got a late start. Dean smiles and sips his coffee.

Waiting twenty minutes to make sure Castiel doesn't turn around because he forgot something, Dean finally gets out of his car. He waits for another resident to leave, and then ducks through the entrance and casually makes his way towards Castiel's apartment.

The lock is surprisingly easy to pick. Dean goes just far enough in to close the door behind him, then takes out a camera and begins snapping photos. It's not for a creepy reason this time; he just doesn't want Castiel to know anyone's been here, so if he picks up and moves anything, he has to know its original position.

It's a two bedroom apartment. Wood floors, walls still painted default white. There's a large flatscreen on one wall and a beige comfortable couch, but the rest of the place is filled with bookcases and books. There's a lot of forensic police investigation books, but also a fair number on profiling. There's also a strange mix of modern thrillers and old classics. He's got the entire set of Charles Dicken's novels.

He checks the bedroom and finds a dark blue comforter over a hastily made bed. The rest of the room is empty. There's not even a dresser, everything is in a closet.

The spare bedroom has a mattress, covered with a bottom and top sheet, but no blankets. It's also empty.

The kitchen has mostly premade food. The freezer is stuffed with microwave ready meals, and a lot of the food in the fridge is stuff that doesn't go bad quickly. Dean muses that at least Castiel will be eating better at the bunker. Dean loves to cook, and even after losing Sam, he mostly kept up with making himself a fresh dinner every day. It reminds him that he's no longer living on the road all the time, forced to make do with whatever a town has to offer in the way of cheap eating.

There's at least a dozen takeout boxes with expired food. Dean takes a sniff of one and grimaces. Jeez. Castiel should clean this out.

The important thing, though, is this means Dean would have a really hard time drugging Castiel's food reliably. There's no telling if Castiel would eat it, or when, or even how much. Too risky. Dean's going to have drug him outright.

Dean takes one last look around the apartment, checks the photos on his phone to make sure everything is as it was, and then heads for the door.

The little side table has a wicker basket on it with pink flowers woven in. It looks handmade. "I bet there's a story there," Dean muses wryly. He'll have to ask Castiel, sometime.

He leaves and shuts the door behind him, no sign he was ever there.

* * *

Dean watches Castiel leave and return every day for a week and a half from the safety of his car, across the street. If Castiel is here on Friday, that'll be the day. He's also memorized the routines of all of Castiel's neighbors, to make sure he doesn't run into any of them on the way out. The building is fairly empty on Friday evenings, as a lot of Castiel's neighbors go out for dinner or drinks with friends. Castiel, on the other hand, is likely to stay home all weekend, like he did the last. There's no guarantee something out of the ordinary won't happen – especially with Castiel's job – but Dean is willing to take that risk.

Part of him aches to reach out and touch Castiel.

* * *

Castiel's head slumps into Dean's arm while the rest of his body suddenly becomes a heavy weight. Dean maintains the choke hold for several seconds after, waiting to see if Castiel is faking it or not, but Castiel doesn't twitch. His neck is against the inside of Dean's elbow, and his hands are limp at his sides, no longer trying to claw at Dean's eyes. There's the faint smell of citrus shampoo in Castiel's soft hair, the slightest bit of stubble on his cheeks. Dean goes to his knees, gently placing Castiel on the floor, and checks Castiel's breathing.

It's a little labored, but he looks fine.

Dean stares at him. At Castiel, so close. Dean finds himself examining the planes of Castiel's face, his long eyelashes, and the warmth of his every exhale.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. Then, "Time to go."

But he hesitates. Taking Castiel is wrong, he knows that. But he doesn't intend on harming the guy. Just talking, in the only way he can manage right now. He swallows, gut roiling, then grabs the broken pieces of the needle – Castiel's a fighter, all right – and puts it in a pocket. He's wearing gloves, but there might be useable prints on that one item. Then he arranges Castiel's limp body so that it almost looks like Castiel is leaning on him, even though Dean is carrying all his unconscious weight.

Past the front door, into the hallway. Then down the stairs and into the parking lot. The trunk is already cracked, so all Dean has to do is open it all the way and place Castiel in it. He grabs the rope he'd put in there and ties Castiel's hands and feet, before tying them together. It's a really hard restraint to get out of, and while it's uncomfortable Castiel won't be in it for long. Well. Not conscious, anyway.

He slams the trunk shut, gets into the car, and drives. Half an hour of highway travel later, he pulls over somewhere remote and sits in the car and freaks the fuck out.

What is he _doing_?

He has an FBI agent locked in his trunk. A completely innocent man. Not a creature. Not possessed. And because Dean wants to talk about his feelings? It's the stupidest thing Dean's ever done. He just spent five weeks planning and then carrying out the kidnapping of a federal agent for no other reason than that Anna told him he's Dean's soulmate and Dean really, really wants to talk to him. This is – this is _nuts_.

But it's where he is. He's got Castiel now. He kind of has to move forward, doesn't he? And it's not like Castiel will be hurt. No, he'll be fine. Totally fine. He nods to himself. He's gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, staring out at the deserted commercial center he'd pulled into. He gets out of the car and grabs a bag he'd stored in the backseat. It has more of the anesthesia. He fills up a needle carefully – he knows how, he and Sam patched each other up enough they kind of compare to EMTs at this point – and then circles the car.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the trunk.

Castiel's still there, of course. Eyes closed, not moving. All the ropes have been disturbed, however, and a hint of humor pierces Dean's worry. "Don't bother," he says. "I know you're awake."

Castiel opens his eyes and glares at him. If he could talk, Dean'd bet there's all kinds of threats coming out of his mouth. But all Dean sees is his beautiful, blue eyes.

Dean smiles at him, tries to make it comforting, somehow. "Only a sedative, I swear," he says, showing Castiel the needle. "It'll make this easier." Castiel won't have to be awake, struggling or panicking for the trip. "You've lost ten pounds in the last six months," Dean adds. He can tell, just by looking at Castiel. Because, of course, he's been staring at a lot of photos of the guy over the past five years. It's a little creepy that Dean can tell that, but he pushes that out of his mind. "So I won't give you the full dose."

Fear mixes with anger, but Castiel doesn't try to get away when Dean injects his arm. Castiel blinks several times, like he's sleepy, and then he's out.

Dean stares down at him for almost a full minute before he's able to shake himself out of his trance. He has to drive. Yeah.

He barely stops over the next day and a half, only taking naps. He drives the speed limit the entire way, as much as it hurts his baby to be restrained. Each time he stops to drug Castiel again, he also takes out Castiel's gag and gives him water. Castiel's still really out of it, and Dean has to massage his throat – Castiel's skin so soft and warm, with rough stubble on his cheeks – in order to make sure he swallows properly. It takes a while, every time, but Dean finds himself looking forward to it after the first and gives him water every four hours. The way that Castiel is so warm to the touch, the way he blinks fuzzily at Dean when he begins to wake up.

Fuck, that's creepy. Dean is such a creep.

It's dark when they get to the bunker. Dean pulls in to the door and backs up so that the trunk is closer to the door, which he opens in advance. Then he opens the trunk. Castiel's still unconscious; there's another two or three hours before Dean would give him his next dose. Dean checks Castiel's breathing (fine) and his hands and feet (blood is still circulating) just like the other times. He unties most of the bindings. Then he gets one arm under Castiel's back, and one under his legs, and lifts.

He's heavier than Dean would've thought, but he's nowhere near the difficulty of trying to lug Sam's unconscious body around. Actually, there's something weirdly comforting about carrying him. Castiel's solid. Present.

Dean lays him on the bed, and unties Castiel's feet entirely, taking off his shoes. His suit jacket is all twisted up, so he takes that off, too. Then, queasy, he puts the ankle cuff on Castiel and locks it. He leaves the room to put away the key, and returns with a bottle of water, which he places on the soft bed. He'd put tons of blankets there, for Castiel, so he'll be comfortable when he wakes. He's still got the small camera in his pocket from when he was taking photos of Castiel's apartment, and after a second of hesitation, he snaps a quick one of Cas sleeping.

Proof he was here. Kinda. It's not like Dean won't get the death penalty anyway.

Watching Castiel breathe seems creepy, and unlike some of Dean's other creepiness, it's one that will get noticed when Castiel wakes up, so Dean decides to take off. He wanders down the hallways for a few minutes, debating what to do with himself while he waits. He dresses in more comfortable clothing, a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. Hopefully that'll be less threatening. Maybe make some dinner? Well, he doesn't know if Castiel will want that, but he can figure out possible meals. Probably something that doesn't require a knife. He's not entirely sure what Castiel would do with it, but better not to find out.

He decides on burgers and takes out ground beef to defrost in water.

What he doesn't do is think too hard about what's next. He knows he should be, but hey, he's winged it a good portion of his life, and that hasn't turned too badly, has it?

Dean stares at his empty kitchen. Empty of people and friends and family. He closes his eyes and rubs them, breathing slowly. "I'm an idiot," he says to the silence.

He decides to go head for the bedroom his soulmate is chained up in, and that's a sentence he never thought he'd ever think.

Castiel is awake. He's grimacing in pain while he rubs one of his calves, and Dean realizes Castiel's muscles must be seized up, or at least really sore, from not being moved in so long. As he watches, Castiel takes a deep drink from the water bottle, throat visibly working. Another flinch passes across his face as Castiel hits a particularly sore spot.

"I can help with that," Dean offers.

Castiel jumps, chokes on his water, and turns wide eyes to Dean.

"The muscle cramping? I could massage it, I mean you probably wouldn't let me close enough …" Of course he wouldn't, Dean is a total imbecile. Dean's his kidnapper, he probably thinks he's going to end up in a shallow grave in Dean's backyard. Think of something else to say, idiot. "Uh, how about ibuprofen? Black tea? Sam always swore by its anti-flammory-something properties."

Castiel stares at him hard with narrowed eyes. After a moment, his face eases and Castiel is able to give him a steady look. Calmly appreciative, almost like Dean's a waiter or something. "Ibuprofen and tea would be good, thank you."

So polite. Dean grins, feeling like he's won something. No screaming yet. "I'll be back."

He starts the tea immediately and then finds the ibuprofen. He doesn't have an unopened one that he can find, but hopefully Castiel accepts it anyway. The water boils, he puts the tea to steep, and taps the counter impatiently. At two minutes, he removes the tea bag and dumps in sugar. Then he brings it back to Castiel, carefully setting the bottle and tea on the floor just inside the room, a fair fifteen or so feet away from Castiel. "Here you go."

Castiel stands up, the chain dragging behind him very noisily. The floors are tiled, not carpet, so the metal links clatter against the hard surface. Dean swallows, watching Castiel move while all chained up. It makes him kind of nauseous, but there's also a sense of security. Castiel's here, and he can't get away.

Castiel checks the bottle, then the pill, then the bottle, before actually taking one with the tea. He retreats to his bed. Then he gives Dean a calm expression and asks, "So, why am I here?"

Okay. Don't fuck this up. "I'm your soulmate."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Castiel demands.

Dean winces internally. There's nothing untrue in the accusation, but it's weirdly painful to have his soulmate say it. "Probably a lot."

Castiel's hand tightens on his mug. He pauses, and surprisingly gives Dean a soft look. "I mean – why? Why me?"

Okay, Dean needs to get some things straight here. "Look, I'm sure you're being nice and calm about this because you think I'm going to torture and kill you, but that isn't what this is about. I swear. I won't hurt you."

"I've seen your file, Dean."

Nodding wryly, Dean says, "Yeah. I know. I saw you in Wyoming. That, um. Kind of triggered this."

Castiel tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

Dean wishes he could tell what Castiel is thinking through his whole spiel about soulmates and true love and all that shit, but he can't. The guy is like a blank book. And he has been. Dean was expecting threats, he was expecting Castiel to make some kind of statement about how he's an FBI agent and the entire FBI is going to be after Dean's ass, and this will never last, and for his own sake Dean should let him go. But instead, Castiel just asks questions. Tries to understand, expression calm. The only real reaction Castiel gives him is that slight head tilt and squinted eyes. Puzzlement.

He shows no sign of fear whatsoever.

Hell, he takes in cupids with barely a blink. Dean explaining that he needs to know Castiel gives him a slight lean forward, like he's moving closer to absorb the words. Castiel asks, "And the chain?"

"Sorry," Dean says apologetically. "But you are an FBI agent. It stays." Maybe he should go to the library and see if something else will work. For the time being. This is still temporary. He's not going to tell Castiel that yet because … because … he can't yet.

"Can I ask a question, then?"

"You can always ask questions," Dean says immediately. Talking is what Dean wants, after all. The whole point of this mess. "I know this is pretty fucked up, okay? But my entire life is fucked up, so. Ask."

"We've met. Correct? Isn't that sufficient?"

"But you don't –" Dean stops himself. _You don't know me yet_ , he wants to say. _I don't know you. You've been kidnapped by a serial killer and I still only see the shell of your training._

"Thank you for the tea." Perfectly polite, again.

Day one.

* * *

Day two goes about as expected. There's a lot of explaining involved. Not just the kidnapping thing, but also Dean's life. Castiel opens up a little bit. Mentions his brother. Talks about some favorite foods. But mostly, he listens. Even as he asks questions, they're all kind of listening questions. Dean decides he'd make a really good interrogator. Hell, maybe that's like a specialty? Dean could see that.

Of course it helps that Dean _wants_ to talk.

Day three, Castiel's still asleep when Dean gets up. He wanders over to Castiel's bedroom, yawning, and then peeks in. Castiel's passed out in bed, on his back with blankets pulled up to his chest. His mouth is slightly open, and he's just barely snoring. It's cute. Dean leans up against the door frame and watches, warmth rising in his chest. He's missed this. Having another person around. And Castiel is so strangely welcoming, behind those mysterious eyes and that barely-there smile that so rarely appears. Dean wants – Dean wants more. He doesn't even know more of what, exactly, but definitely more.

Then Castiel wakes up. He jolts upright, eyes scanning the room until he finds Dean. "Fuck."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I was just looking in, I swear, I wasn't being a total creep," Dean says, embarrassed. "In fact, I'll just go and get the day started."

Then he jogs away before Castiel can say anything.

He buries himself in preparing for breakfast, resolutely not thinking too much about the brief panic he'd seen in Castiel's eyes. Cas just isn't used to Dean yet, to being here. Really, it's a perfectly understandable reaction, and frankly quite mild considering the situation he thinks he's in. Dean won't hurt him, of course, but he doesn't know that. Dean's about to break the eggs for the waffles he plans to make when the phone rings.

"Hello?" Dean asks, putting the phone on speaker.

" _Dean!_ " Charlie is bright over the vaguely crappy reception. Must be raining. " _It's your monthly checkup. Do I need to hit your knees and look into your ears? On second thought, no. That's gross. Do I need to make you a doctor's appointment?_ "

Dean laughs. "I'm fine. How are you?"

" _Awesome_ ," Charlie says.

The conversation lasts about ten minutes, most of it Charlie prying about what Dean's been up to. Of course he doesn't tell her – Charlie would kill him if she knew he'd kidnapped Castiel. It doesn't help that he's pretty sure Sam made her make some promises about looking out for Dean, because when Dean tries to wrap up the conversation so he can finish breakfast – Cas is waiting – Charlie doesn't let him go that easily.

" _Did you ever decide if you wanted to meet that dreamy soulmate of yours?_ "

Dean freezes. Thank God she can't see him. "Um, that'd be kind of hard, what with him hunting me down, y'know."

" _What do you mean?_ " Charlie asks, puzzled.

"Wendigo," Dean explains. "I found the FBI there, including him. I guess he's on the Winchesters case now. So, yeah. Meeting him is kind of difficult." Dean winces. Unless you carefully plan a kidnapping. "But he's doing fine, from what I can tell, so that's good. At least one person who likes the Winchesters is having a happy, normal life."

" _Hey! Should I be insulted? Do I not count as family? Deeean, you are in so much trouble –_ "

"I didn't mean that! C'mon, Charlie. Of course you are. I guess that makes two, huh?"

Charlie makes him promise to call her back in a week before finally hanging up. That makes something ping in Dean's mind; he can use that, somehow. He puts it out of his mind, finishes the batter and makes the waffles. He tops it with strawberries and whipped cream, determined to spoil Castiel, and then returns to Castiel's room. Castiel is sitting cross-legged on the bed, wrists on his knees like he's about to meditate. Maybe he does, Dean will have to ask.

Dean knocks on the door to announce his presence, and Castiel looks up with one of those super-faint smiles that are so slight a camera probably couldn't catch it.

"Sorry, had to take care of something before I could make waffles." Dean places the paper plate on the floor, with a proper fork. A little plastic thing would make the meal hard to eat, and he doesn't think Castiel's going to attack him. Castiel doesn't have that kind of temper, and Dean's explanation of why attacking Dean is a bad idea seems to have worked.

"Dean, do you ever intend on letting me go?"

Dean freezes with fork in hand. His mind goes frighteningly blank. _Of course_ should be on the tip of his tongue, but it isn't. "I don't know."

Castiel's voice is low and desperate. "Dean, please. They surely know I'm gone by now. My brother Balthazar is probably worried out of his mind."

The world seems to slow to a stop. There's Castiel, chained to the floor, staring down at him. His soulmate, who he has to imprison just to keep close. His soulmate, that he should really release, but every bone in his body is screaming no. No. Words jumble up in Dean's mouth and he knows if he opens his mouth something bad will come out, so he stands up without a word, turns on his heel, and leaves.

He stops at Sam's door. He curls his hand around the knob, twists and pushes. Then he sinks to the middle of Sam's floor.

Is he going to let Castiel go?

He should. Morally, he should. Dean's met the requirements of sharing a heaven with a soulmate. Keeping Castiel any longer than he has is wrong. Flat out, totally wrong.

Dean pictures Sam in his mind for a moment, pictures his reaction, but he doesn't get any further than imaginary Sam saying, _Dean_ , before he pushes out of his mind.

Cas has been so kind to him. Listening to all of Dean's stupid stories, not saying anything like "You're nuts" when Dean tells him about angels and demons. He even asked for proof of Dean's words rather than dismiss them outright. Sympathy in his eyes when Dean told him about losing Sam, about closing the gates of hell. He listened when Dean said, "Why does my family have to be the one that loses everything?" Dean talks about the most fucked up things in his life, and Cas just sits there and _understands_. Maybe he's putting it into a context that makes more sense to him, one where Dad and Sam were his partners in crime rather than hunters, but he still understands Dean's pain. He feels Dean's pain.

But more than that. Castiel's thoughts are so hidden. Dean has such a hard time telling what Castiel thinks and feels. It's like Dean wants to crack him open and get all his secrets. He kind of just wants to crawl into Castiel, actually. And not even in a creepy sexual way. Just a creepy way.

Dean sits on the floor and breathes, hands curled into fists.

If Cas was gone. If Cas was gone, the shattered pieces of Dean's life would be just as messed up as they were before, but Dean knows it now. He can't go back.

Everything about Castiel begs Dean to keep him. To know him.

Dean gets up and goes to the communal showers. He'd given Cas the commander's bedroom, with an attached bath, but everyone else shared one big shower, like a gym. He strips down and turns on the water as hot it will go. He tries to go through the motions of cleaning himself, but after about a minute he just collapses to the ground and cries. He can't even feel the tears fall, but his hitching breathing that he can't stop tells him he is, the way his body shakes, he can't stop, he can't fucking stop. He's been alone so long, and Dean Winchester was never made for that. He made a promise to Sam he wouldn't blow his brains out, but if Cas goes – that's what's going to happen.

He stares at his trembling hands. He can't let Castiel go. Not yet. The rest, he'll – he'll figure that out later. Later.

Half an hour later, he gets out, completely dries himself, and dresses in the same clothing. He has to go back to Cas and give him an answer. He dawdles for an hour before he works up the courage.

Cas is sitting on the bed, reading a book on mermaids. Dean clears his throat. "Cas?"

"Yes?" Cas says, voice and eyes steady.

"Can I come in?"

Dean holds his breath, but Castiel finally nods.

Rather barely enter the room like has before, Dean takes the opportunity to walk over to the bed. He has to walk past the chain where it's bolted into the floor. Dean's method of imprisonment. He sits on the bed gingerly, on the edge, and then holds out his hand.

Cas looks puzzled, staring at Dean's hand and then those blue eyes flicking up to meet Dean's gaze. "You want to … hold my hand."

Dean feels himself flush and raises his chin. "Yeah."

"I'm not gay," Castiel blurts.

Dean blinks. Well, that's the last thing he expected to hear. Forgetting not to be creepy, he says the first thing that comes to mind: "What about the guy in college?"

Castiel is the one to flush this time. "I wanted to piss someone off, so I made out with him. It worked."

The words stir a sense of humor Dean thought was nearly dead. "Oh, you're going to have tell me what prompted that." He wants to know. He wants to know everything. But Castiel still looks wary, so all Dean does is hold out his again, palm up. He tries to put sincerity and pleading in his voice. "Please, Cas."

Castiel takes a deep breath, then puts his hand in Dean's.

And Dean's heart breaks a little. This is Cas. Dean knows Cas is only doing this to make Dean feel better, and it makes something heady rise in Dean's chest. Cas is – is kind. And it's been so long since Dean had that, any kind of genuine gentle touch. From a lover, Lisa was the last, and even she didn't feel anything like this. Sam, right before he died, put a hand to Dean's cheek, offering silent physical comfort.

Cas's eyes slowly change from that steady look to fear.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks, tensing.

Castiel looks away.

"You look scared." Of Dean. Which hurts, even if there's good reason behind it. "I won't hurt you, Cas."

"My brother always calls me Cassie. I hate it."

"I can call you Castiel, if you want," Dean says hesitantly.

Castiel hesitates, eyes flicking over the room, and he swallows hard. "Cas is fine. I'm just – I'm just –" He trails off. He tries to withdraw, but on instinct Dean grips him tighter. Dean expects Cas to struggle, but instead Cas just gives him a wary look and stops trying to take his hand back. Some of that fear fades, and he clenches his jaw, returning Dean's stare with intense eyes.

Dean examines every flicker of expression on Cas's face. Then he kisses the back of Castiel's hand, gentle. "I'm sorry, Cas, that I can't let you go. Not yet."

Rather than push farther, Dean lets Cas go without saying anything else, and leaves the room, with a mix of pain and hope in his heart.

* * *

Cas doesn't really react when Dean tells him that Dean has to leave for a couple of weeks. It's a complicated hunt, some kind of city-wide ritual in Chicago. He can't let Castiel go, but he also can't let this hunt go. Garth needs help, even if that help is mostly a body on the streets, going out and talking to people to figure this mess out. Five corpses so far, all done in the same way, and a half-destroyed spellbook tell them that it's bigger than some ritual killing.

Three days in, he messages Charlie and tells her to go to the bunker if she doesn't hear him from in two weeks. Says it'll be an emergency she'll have to take care of, if she doesn't hear from him. She texts him about two hundred questions about it, and Dean has to put his phone vibrate while they finish the hunt. Four days in, he goes off the whiskey cold turkey. He wakes up with the shakes, and Garth is actually looking concerned, but he toughs out the alcohol withdrawal. He wants to be there for Cas, not just as a hunter, but also as a person. Functional alcoholism doesn't qualify.

By the time Dean returns, he's tired but successful.

And Cas is fucking _pissed_.

Even though he's worried nearly out of his mind because shit, of course leaving someone Cas for two weeks while chained up is going to fuck with his head, Cas's anger delights Dean. Because it's _Cas_ , without any walls separating him from Dean. Unfiltered. Even the dig about Dean being a crappy soulmate, it hurts, but it also gives Dean hope that Cas will begin to interact with Dean in a real, genuine way, instead of the careful politeness he's given so far.

Dean's right. Cas opens up by degrees, talking about his childhood for the first time. In some ways, Cas's childhood sounds like the exact opposite of Dean's – he had a close, intimate family life on his father's large property. They were so wrapped in each other that they didn't really see the world, or show their children the world. Castiel striking out on his own, after his brother, was a major shock to them. While Dean was on the road, forever trying to keep his family together.

Or maybe they have more in common than it seems on the surface, except Cas is Sam, not Dean. It's a weird thought.

Dean also gets Castiel everything he could ever need, fully outfitting the room. Now that Cas is staying, at least for a while, Dean wants him comfortable. So, flatscreen, ipod, dresser, clothes, everything. Other than providing Cas with meals and stuff, he stays outside the room. His ass is sore from sitting on the hard floor, and his back is beginning to hurt from leaning against the wall, but it's worth it to spend time with Cas, where Cas is at ease. The way he isn't when Dean is really close.

Cas continues to not mention the chain on his ankle, but Dean can't help staring at it. His feelings about it are weirdly mixed – he's sorry, but he's also comforted. And a weird tingle of possessiveness, that he _has_ Cas, that Cas is his, that he doesn't want to think about too much.

One morning, over his eggs, Cas says, "I miss sunlight." His posture is perfectly straight, elegant, even when sitting on the uneven surface of the bed. Dean spends more time than he really should admiring the small of Cas's back.

Dean freezes, but says, "Yeah?"

"I'd go out for runs," Cas explains. There's no judgment in his words. There rarely is. "When I could, of course. Sometimes if work was really tiring I'd skip it for a while."

"You didn't go on runs while I was watching you," Dean says without thinking.

Cas pauses chewing and raises an eyebrow.

Dean shifts on the hard floor. "Um, just before. I wasn't stalking you or anything." Except he kind of was. Even Dean can admit that to himself. "Anyway, I'll see what I can do."

Cas shrugs, a liquid motion where he lifts one shoulder then the other, and keeps eating his eggs.

It's little things like that which tell Dean not just that Castiel is unhappy, but why. And it's the 'why' that's the key. As long as Cas is here, Dean wants to take care of him and keep him as happy as possible. He's spending money a little wildly in pursuit of that goal, and since Charlie helped him set up fake identities (which Sam then used to make investments), she might notice. He hasn't come up with a good lie yet. But there are other things to do for Cas besides throwing shiny toys at him. Cas hasn't complained, but Dean has caught him rubbing his shackled ankle more than once.

There are little spells of depression, too. They're subtle, because Cas is your typical enigma wrapped in a riddle, but when it takes Cas longer to reply, when he gets lost in his own mind, when he purses his lips and when he's shoulders are high and tense … yeah, Dean knows. Dean's learning Cas.

So Dean needs to do something about this. Long term –

Fuck. Long term.

"Dean?"

Dean looks up. "Yeah?"

"You look upset. Is something wrong?" Cas asks.

Dean smiles. Of course Cas asks that. And it's not simple self preservation that makes Cas ask, either, because of the way Cas responds. He tries to comfort Dean. It's really … strange. But awesome. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just worried about you, Cas."

Cas doesn't reply. He squints at Dean, like he's saying in his head, _And? You're the cause, remember?_

"I'm going to take off for a bit. You okay for a couple of hours?"

Cas slowly nods. "I'll be fine."

Once Cas has a new movie to watch – some French film that would probably make Dean die of boredom (does Cas speak French? He's not loading subtitles) – he leaves for the library.

There's a locked cage in the library which has magical items, as well as a larger storage area in what is basically the bunker's basement. But all the notes on where things are and what they do is in the library, using a card system. It's annoying going through it and figuring out how the Men of Letters had organized things, but after a couple of hours Dean has three solid leads on objects that can restrain a user to a specific area.

It takes a few days to figure things out. Two of the objects – a bracelet and a necklace – only work against creatures, not human beings. Which makes sense. But the last one, an ankle cuff, has adjustable boundaries that Dean can set basically at will – all is takes is a few special ingredients, some words, and carrying the cuff around. Dean does that part after lunch. He's actually able to test it just by holding the cuff and pressing it against a line he'd set in the kitchen. It stops in midair.

The ankle cuff isn't setting Cas free. But it feels like it is. Like Dean's not such a horrible person anymore.

Dean looks at the cuff, pleased.

* * *

When he wakes up, lying on Cas's bedroom floor and bloody, he has to admit that Cas took him by surprise.

Cas's escape attempt doesn't work, of course. Dean's not stupid. Neither is Cas – he made an assumption that would usually be correct, in assuming a magical cuff is a delusion – and in a way, Dean has an unfair advantage. Or he had one. Cas actually reacts a lot better than most when first exposed to the supernatural. Shock, yeah. But he started figuring it out immediately. Dean saw him testing the boundary.

His soulmate is smart. Underneath all the anger at being attacked – Dean thought they were past that, that Cas would try to escape later in secret – he's pleased. And yeah, of course Cas is smart, he's an FBI agent, but it's another thing to see it. And admittedly he's seen a few moronic feds.

Still. Cas attacked him with no hesitation. Dean supposes he should be grateful Cas didn't do worse, but as illogical as it is, he's not. He stares at Cas for a second, anger still burning on the surface. Cas is on the bed, hurt and looking at Dean worriedly. His cuffed wrist is beginning to swell. "You going to fight me?" he asks, poised to uncuff him. "I'm going to switch it to your left."

"I won't fight you."

Dean switches Cas's cuff to the other, uninjured wrist, then examines the one Cas said was hurting. It doesn't feel broken. Hands, unfortunately, are hurt a lot on hunts. Punching, beheading, grabbing, smashing. It takes its toll. But Cas's feels okay. Must just be sprained. "Not broken," Dean decides. "Feet?"

"My left. Only sprained, I think."

Dean nods. "That it besides the cuts and bruises?"

"Yes."

Dean looks into Castiel's blue eyes, willing him to understand Dean's position here. "I could have really hurt you, you know that, right?"

Cas glares at him. "Am I still allowed to be honest?"

That shuts Dean up. Clearly, they're not going to be making progress today. Wait. Progress? Cas did exactly what Dean ultimately expected him to, exactly what anyone would do in Cas's situation. He saw an opportunity and seized it. What progress was Dean even expecting? Cas to sit quietly and not even test a legitimate escape plan? What the hell is wrong with Dean? There's nothing wrong with Cas, after all.

There's a bizarre twisting pit of new anger in his gut, at Cas, and at himself. Because he let himself get into the habit of thinking that they were becoming close, that spending all this time together meant they were becoming friends. But Cas doesn't see it that way. And of course he doesn't. Dean is cleaning, sterilizing and then bandaging Cas's wounds – ones that he gave Cas. He stays silent as he works through all of Cas's injuries, and then his own. But as he stares at himself in the mirror, at the cut on his lip and the huge one on his forehead that he seals with butterfly bandages, the anger drains away.

Dean has to work harder. He has to figure this out. Cas can like him, Dean just needs to figure out how to get past Cas's barriers. Because, because otherwise, he will lose Cas eventually. If he can just get Cas to open up to him …

Or Dean should just take what he can while he can. He can't hold Cas forever. Fuck. He doesn't know what to do. He just knows he doesn't want to be alone again. That he can't survive that.

Cas is still lying on the bed when Dean leaves the bathroom. Dean just looks at him for a moment. He's bruised and cut up, and clearly pretty miserable, but he's still so beautiful. Cas is giving him a wary look, licking his lips a little as Dean approaches the bed. It leaves his mouth faintly shiny, and Dean can't help but track the movement of Cas swallowing.

Dean settles on the bed, knees first. Then he lays down next to Cas, really carefully and slowly, into the gap left by Cas's restrained arm. He moves around until he's in a position that'll be comfortable for a while, and then lays one hand on Cas's stomach.

He watches as Cas inhales sharply, his hand rising with Cas. Then the exhale. He's warm. Dean follows his next breath, and the one after that, and the one after that. It feels like Dean is touching something precious.

It's pushing it, Dean knows that, but he shifts until he's pressed against the side of Cas's body, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. He can't quite get a look at Cas's face like this, but he feels every twitch of Cas's body, every small movement. Tears prick Dean's eyes, because it feels so fucking good to be close to someone. He's not even getting hard.

Cas's breathing is accelerating, so Dean says, "It'll be okay, Cas. Just rest, okay?"

And Cas's inhales and exhales slow. Like he believes Dean.

Dean's mind goes blank and buzzing, filled with contentment. Over the next ten minutes, Cas makes tiny shifts, like he's getting comfortable. He doesn't try to get away, though of course that would be hard with his wrist still cuffed. Dean's holding him here, keeping him here, but having Cas so close is worth the guilt. He knows it's wrong, but it's worth it anyway. After twenty minutes, Cas really relaxes. And after forty, Cas finally falls asleep.

Dean can tell because Cas starts to lightly snore. He smiles into Cas's warm shirt.

It's not until Dean's arm starts to go slightly numb that he rises up a bit. In doing so, his hand slides across Cas's shirt, and Dean barely grazes Cas's skin.

He stops. Then, gentle and light, he puts his hand on Cas's bare stomach. Slides his hand down to Cas's hip, to where his waistband lies. He rubs the soft skin there.

When Cas wakes up and wants to know what Dean will do, the deal pops into Dean's head instantly. He doesn't have to think about it. He knows what he wants. To be close. And he knows what Cas wants – his brother, to escape. And this is a way, Dean knows that and he'll have to take precautions with the letter, but it'll be worth it, even if Dean ends up in prison for it. Sleeping in the same bed will give both of them want they want, Dean thinks.

Cas looks him in the eyes. "Yes. I agree."

And that's where everything changes.

* * *

The list of reasons Dean is falling in love with Cas is getting long.

Cas is smart, determined, and brave. He fights Dean like hell, even knowing all the advantages Dean has, including magic. Honestly, the guy is pretty close to being able to beat Dean in a fight, it just so happens that his weaknesses are Dean's strengths. Dean didn't take a beating because he was afraid of hitting Cas, he took it because Cas is _good_. But he's kind, too. He listens to Dean's worries and fears, and offers comfort in the form of his own fears. He opens up when there's no tactical reason for it. He offers comfort when it gains him nothing. Because Cas is a good person, better than Dean ever was.

This is the man who leaned into him when Dean stumbled past Sam's door. Dean thought to himself, _Holy shit, man, I just beat the crap out of you. Why are you comforting me?_ But that's Cas.

That's just Cas.

* * *

Sleeping in the same bed with Cas is like heaven and hell mixed up. When Cas sleeps, all that wariness fades away. He shifts around and sleepily, grumpily pokes Dean until Dean cooperates with Cas getting comfortable. He'll snuggle in the middle of the night, but usually shift out of it by morning. He has the one freakout, where when he wakes up lying on Dean's chest, he gets upset and then angry. He's lashing out against his situation.

Dean's been expecting it, though, and he shifts into a role he knows well: caretaker.

He blathers about car maintenance for an hour, not missing the slight, amused smile Cas hides when he goes on the rant about modern wannabe Impalas. He gets Cas food that'll be easy to eat and digest. He acts like a dork.

And at night, he whispers promises into Cas's skin. "I'll take care of you. I'll take good care of you."

Sounds like heaven, right? But the hell part is that Dean can go as far as Cas will allow, even when Cas has nightmares, or when he's visibly distressed. It's infrequent, but they happen. Dean wants to press into Cas's bare skin, explore and see where he has hair, feel the strength of his body, but Cas wears clothes like armor.

The first time Cas lets Dean hold him close and offer comfort, Dean falls a little more in love.

Day sixty-seven (yes, Dean is counting, because he fears the day he won't be), he and Cas have been setting up the den. Cas has a flat screen in his own room, of course, but besides sleeping in the same bed, Dean's been trying to let that remain Cas's space. So, making a third space for both of them makes sense. He lets Cas pick out the couch from junk mail, and then has to go through all kinds of contortions to get it to a place where Cas can help him bring it to the room. It ends up in the middle, so they're not too far from the screen. Dean plans to bring other things in to help it be more homey, but it'll have to wait a while.

"Look good?" Dean asks.

Cas eyes the room, then nods.

Dean flops on the couch. "What do you want to watch?"

"Can we talk?" Cas asks, joining him more sedately. Typical Cas.

"Yeah. 'Course. What's up?"

"What were you thinking in Wyoming? When did you see me? I never even noticed you, and I was looking for you." Cas shrugs uncomfortably. "Though I felt you there."

Dean blinks. "You did?"

Cas nods.

"Well, um. You shouldn't have." Dean quirks his mouth into a smile. "I had some charms on that make it hard for people to notice me. Honestly, I didn't even stay in the area for you at first. I was worried there was another wendigo, because there were two kill sites."

"There were? We only found the one."

"Because I killed the wendigo there," Dean explains. "The fire caught your attention, right?"

Cas frowns a little. "What's a wendigo?"

"It's a Native American monster, basically. Someone who eats human flesh for long enough will turn into one, they're basically immortal except for fire, and need humans to chew on. Anyway, so that's why I stayed. And then I heard some cops talking about you guys, the BAU, being there. And I remembered you were on that team. So I got curious." Dean looks down at his hands. "I saw you first at the crime scene. Looking around. And I just … I just wanted to talk to you, so damn bad. I've never felt that kind of impulse before."

Cas is quiet for a moment. "I can't say I had the same reaction to meeting you."

"Well, you were in the trunk of a car," Dean admits.

Cas doesn't react. "But you stayed after that?"

"Yeah. Just watched you. Not in a creepy way, I swear. It was just – I wanted to know you. I need to know you." Dean pauses. "I still do. Want to know you."

Castiel tilts his head like a bird. "But it's more than that. You wouldn't have taken me here if it was one-sided. You had a desire to be known."

"I mean, I guess so."

"It's why secrets are so hard to keep – we want others to know us, even if it hurts us." Cas looks contemplative.

Or even if hurts the other person, Dean thinks. His eyes flick to the ankle cuff. The sweatpants Cas is wearing are really soft, but slightly short, so Cas's ankles are exposed. He can see the silver gleam. He knows it's lighter than the shackle, but it's still a chain. "Yeah," he says at last. "You're right. Why do you ask, Cas?"

Cas bites his lip, gaze drifting over Dean's face. "I want to understand you."

"Not much to understand, honestly. Not much going on up here." Dean waves at his head.

Cas actually laughs a little. "That's not true, Dean."

The sight and sound of that little huff of breath makes Dean's heart soar. So he goes for it again. "Oh yeah it is. I'm simple in the head. I mean, I'm a man with a GED, but I can't say much more than that."

Instead of laughing, Cas just stares at him intensely. "You made your own EMF reader. You can rebuild a car from the ground up, and have done so. And you can debate any topic I want, including some classic literature. You're not stupid, Dean, and I think the FBI frankly underestimated you, and overestimated your luck."

Dean finds himself blushing and looks away. How does Cas manage to see him clearly, when all he's got is Dean's own, totally inadequate words? Fuck, but he loves everything about Cas. Those words rattle around in his head for several seconds, and he looks up to see Cas giving him a slightly concerned expression.

"Dean?"

The thought of letting Cas go hurts. So Dean shoves it down, down, down. "Thanks, Cas."

Cas gives him a slight smile. "So what did you want to watch?"

 _I love you_ , Dean thinks. It's like a shock to his system, and he's afraid Cas will see it, but Cas is digging around in a box of dvds. A sliver of skin shows when Cas's shirt rises up, and then he finds whatever he was looking for. Dean stares at him, stares at the man he loves.

"Casablanca?" Cas asks.

Dean's heart is racing as he smiles. "Sure."

* * *

Night of seventy-two is embarrassing. Dean wakes up when Cas leaves the bed, and realizes he's hard. Judging from the flush, lack of eye contact, and tenseness in Cas, he was rubbing up against him in his sleep. Dean has to go take a shower, hand on his cock, trying desperately not to imagine Cas in the shower with him. His stack of porn mags has been getting a lot of use as Dean desperately tries not to think of Cas that way when really, he definitely does think of Cas that way. His bright blue eyes, his smile, his slim and muscled form. He ends up coming with the sight of Cas's red face in his mind, wondering if he'll ever be the direct cause of that, if Cas will ever want it.

But Cas doesn't freak, even the next day. And that gives Dean hope.

* * *

A little more than three weeks later, Dean is making breakfast. He makes pancakes, not with jam and whipped cream this time, but with maple syrup. The gooey, delicious stuff gets everywhere, and that's exactly what he wants. He heats up the pan, rolls the oil around, and then pours some batter into it. One pancake. Two pancake. Three pancake. They all go into a plate. Dean glances over his shoulder to look at Cas.

Cas is slumped at the kitchen table, dressed in sweats and one finger meandering over the grain of the wood. He's examining the table with an intensity usually only reserved for Dean or other things that particularly confuse or frustrate him. There's a point in there somewhere about Dean, he's sure.

"How are you doing?" Dean asks carefully.

Cas gives him the stinkeye immediately. Okay, so he's not happy about last night.

Dean is. Dean's thrilled. Cas kissed him. Their first kiss. And yeah, Dean started it. Cas was just so present, and giving Dean a concerned look because of the rather hellish nightmare he'd just had, and it was just so sweet and Dean was still so freaked out that leaning forward and pressing his lips against Cas's seemed like a good idea. About a second in, he really did expect Cas to withdraw, or withdraw and slap/hit him somehow. But then Cas kissed him back.

And because Dean is an idiot, he wanted to press into Cas's skin, touch him everywhere. Feel Cas respond to him. A thumb to Cas's nipple, which hardened almost immediately and fuck that was hot, but Cas freaked. He recovered a little once Dean backed off – and Dean has to remember that, he has to always do as Cas asks, because Cas knows what he can take and Dean doesn't – and he asked Dean to kiss him again. And he's a damn good kisser. Soft, wet, sometimes forceful. So responsive to even a little touch, a little bite.

Despite how hard Dean was, he could tell that Cas wasn't actually aroused in return. And Cas proved that by throwing up while Dean was in the shower and jerking himself off to the taste of Cas on his lips. And Cas has been pissy ever since. Dean can't decide if Cas is mad at Dean or at himself.

Dean finishes plating the pancakes, puts one in front of Cas and the other at Dean's usual spot, then gets the syrup.

Cas grabs the bottle without looking at Dean and pours. He cuts the pancake with his fork, drags it through the syrup, and then stuffs it in his mouth. Well, at least he's eating, Dean supposes. It could really be worse. Cas is under a lot of stress, and Dean worries about his mental state. It's made worse by the fact that Cas is so hard to read.

Dean licks his lips, chasing the last bit of sweetness from the syrup. Cas's gaze drifts to Dean's mouth.

"Thank you for last night," Dean finally offers.

Cas sighs and then presses his lips into a line for several seconds before he replies. "Dean, I don't – I don't want that. I don't want to kiss you, I don't want to have sex with you."

"Whatever you want, you'll have," Dean promises. His gut roils, but he's speaking the truth when he adds, "If that's me not touching you, then that's what it is."

"That's what I want." Cas's mouth twists. "Also, to be set free."

Dean is the one to stare down at his plate this time, throat tight. He swallows the last bit of pancake in his mouth, all the moisture suddenly gone. He feels like he needs to say something right, get across to Cas how he feels about Cas. Because it's not just about sex. Of course Dean would like sex, Dean's always loved sex, but keeping Cas isn't about that. It's selfish and wrong, but not that kind of wrong. "I love you, Cas."

"Do you?" Cas's voice is soft. "What is love to you, Dean?"

Dean answers without thinking. "Something that hurts you." Okay, not the best thing to say, but now Cas is looking at Dean with surprise instead of bitterness. "Something you can't live without, no matter how much pain it brings. Even if the pain is equal to the happiness."

Cas puts his fork down. The straight line of his shoulders has turned into a curve.

"I am sorry," Dean says haltingly. "Please understand that."

Cas searches his face for several seconds. "I believe you."

Some tension leaves Dean at that. He smiles at Cas, and Cas smiles back.

* * *

The first indication that something is wrong is when the motion sensors are tripped, two hours into Dean's journey to a hunt. Dean's singing along to Led Zeppelin when his phone beeps at him. Still humming and with one hand on the wheel, he enters the code and looks at the screen. He immediately falls silent when he sees the home security is putting out an alert. He taps the screen and sees that the internal sensor activated first, one near the kitchen. He curses the fact he didn't put up cameras. Something is in the bunker.

Or someone is _out_ of the bunker.

"Fuck," Dean says, and swings the car around with a screech. He's still pretty far from any population centers, so there's no one else on the road. Hopefully Cas can't hike far. "Sorry, baby," he says, patting the dashboard, "we need to hurry."

Cas got out. It's the only thing that makes sense.

There's one overriding thought in Dean's mind: he needs to find Cas. Based on how long Dean's been on the road and Cas's unfamiliarity with the rest of the bunker, he estimates that Cas will search the area for resources, and then take off on foot. Dean left the garage and armory locked. There might be a gun or a knife somewhere, because Dean and Sam liked to keep their weapons varied and easily accessible. There's no hardline, and Dean didn't leave a cell phone either. He didn't want something that could be traced in the bunker at all, at least not unsupervised.

After an hour of speeding, Dean slows and then stops the car. The ankle cuff he'd given Cas has a sort of homing beacon on it. It won't tell Dean where Cas is like even a location spell would, but it will give Dean a general direction, assuming Cas didn't get it off. So he gets out, finds the book that explained the use of the cuff, and says the words. As the one who activated the spell on the cuff, Dean's the 'owner' of it, which means only he can use it to find the cuff. And by extension, Cas. It's a blur of mishmash words that even Dean doesn't properly recognize, but as soon as the last syllable comes off his tongue he feels a _pull_.

He gets back in the car and gets out a map. He figures out where he is, which direction he feels the pull, and the most likely route Cas is taking.

Then he gets back on the road. Because it's directional only, and the farther away Cas is the less precise a direction is, Dean ends up traveling back and forth to narrow down Cas's path. He didn't entirely keep to the road, confusing Dean's estimation at first.

When darkness falls, a deep pit of fear begins to stir in Dean. What will he do if Cas gets away?

It's when the pull begins to shift quickly that Dean realizes he's close. He stops the car and gets out. After a small internal debate, he doesn't take a gun or a knife. If he loses, he loses, but he's not going to take anything that could potentially seriously injure or kill Cas. All he has are handcuffs.

As a child, Dean was left in the wilderness several times by John and hunted. It was practice, and not something Sam had to do until he was much older, and it engrained a strong dislike of hiking in Dean as an adult. But one thing he does know how to do because of that is how to move quietly. Very quietly. He lets the pull guide him, moving along deer paths in the dark.

After fifteen minutes, he sees a dark figure. Cas. The pull is strong. Cas is looking around, but doesn't see Dean in the brush. He's breathing hard, too, not just from exertion, but from some panic as well.

Dean moves forward in five smooth, soundless steps and grabs Cas's wrist. In seconds there's a gun barrel in his face, and Dean thinks, _Oh God_ , but Cas doesn't fire.

Then Dean's on him. He goes for the gun first, and he's not gentle about it. It goes flying with a grunt of pain from Cas, and then they're grappling. Cas is still in good shape; Dean's seen him exercise every morning, without fail. Steady as a soldier. He fights like one, too, trained, but with enough knowledge of dirty tactics that he's reasonably good at defending himself and refusing Dean an opportunity to take him out that way. But Dean's faster, and slightly larger. He puts Cas's smile out of his mind, and fights like this is a hunt.

Cas takes a blow to the chin, stumbling back, and then changes tactics, lunging for something. The gun? Dean is on him and then he feels a sharp slash of pain on his stomach. A knife. Cas has a knife. "Fuck, fuck – Cas, stop!" _I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt._

Cas scrambles blindly. He's losing, but he's not giving up. Cas slashes at Dean again, but Dean sees the uneven rock that Cas doesn't, and kicks it. The next step backward that Cas tries to make forces him to fall, and then Dean's falling with him. They crash into each other and Cas cries out, loud and piercing in the silent brush. Cas stills.

"Cas?" Dean slaps a cuff on one wrist, and searches for other, but Cas isn't resisting, he's lying on the ground, limp.

"My stomach," Cas pants. "The knife." He moans, and Dean gets a glimpse of his pained blue eyes.

"Fuck," Dean whispers. "Okay, I'm going to pick you up and get you to the car, there's light and bandages. Don't struggle, okay? Don't move."

He's as gentle as he can be when he picks Cas up. He goes for a bridal carry, since the wound is on Cas's stomach and a fireman's carry would probably make that a lot worse. It's a little harder on Dean, but he gets his balance after a second or two, and holds Cas close. And walks. Cas whimpers when Dean stumbles a little in the dark, and Dean bites his lip, willing Cas to be okay. He needs light to give Cas first aid. He hopes to God that Cas isn't injured seriously enough to need a hospital. Because if he is, then Dean will have to let Cas go.

Just the thought is enough to make a sharp pain rise in Dean's chest, like he's the one who got stabbed, not Cas.

Then Cas relaxes. He doesn't pass out, because he still reacts if Dean jostles him, but he goes limp in Dean's arms. Dean thinks, _I love you, I love you, don't die on me, don't leave me._

He checks Cas once he gets to the car, then puts Cas inside when he determines that Cas won't need the hospital after all. Cas's eyes are glazed with both physical agony and emotional pain. His eyes are wet, and a few tears have slipped down his cold cheeks. It takes Dean a second to read the look in his eyes, but Cas is in despair. Dean mutters some reassurances, the same things he would say to Sam, if Sam were the one hurt, and then he jogs to the driver's side and gets in and starts his baby. He speeds down dark country roads, bloody hands tight on the steering wheel.

Dean isn't letting Cas go. He can't. He won't.

And if Cas is to stay safe, then Dean needs to be more careful. Not give Cas any opportunity to escape. Because one of them is going to get hurt, if this happens again.

"Cas, you need to stay awake," Dean orders from the front seat, and pushes his baby even faster.

"I want to go home," Castiel tells him weakly from the backseat.

Dean is stunned silent. Of course Cas wants to go home. But Dean's his soulmate. And home is people, not a place. He can make Cas happy. He just has to do better. Once he does better, once Dean stops fucking up, then it will all fall into place. He just has to take care of Cas right, and then everything will be fine. He'll make a home for Cas. He'll give Cas everything he needs. He's never loved someone this much except Sam, and he'd do anything for Sam. He'll do anything for Cas, he just – he just needs to keep him. So he says, softly, "You are home."

The bunker door is open. Dean carries Cas through it, and darkly muses it's like a husband carrying his bride across the threshold of their new home.

Dean gently places Cas on his bed, and then handcuffs him to the headboard.

Cas looks at him dully. "Can I pass out now?"

Dean stares at Cas's still-bleeding knife wound for a moment, then looks up. Yeah, that'd be for the best. "Go ahead."

It takes almost forty-five minutes to completely patch Cas up. Disinfectant, stitches, bandaging. Halfway through he cuts all the clothes off of Cas's body, including his pants and boxers. There was so much blood that until Dean was able to clean it off he couldn't tell if Cas had any other injuries. But no, there's just that one, deep cut.

And Cas, naked. Smooth muscles, a line of coarse hair leading to Cas's cock, which lies soft against his thigh. It's beautiful. Cut. In any other setting and any other mood, Dean'd be hard by now, but this time he just looks. Cas has a runner's body, all lean lines instead of bulk, and his body is mostly bare of hair. He's beautiful, but also a lot slimmer than he seemed clothed. And now, pale from blood loss with a huge bandage on his stomach, he looks …

Cas seems suddenly so fragile.

All this time, Cas has either been calm and collected, or fighting like hell, taking hits and giving more than a few of his own, and so Dean has seen him as strong. Powerful, despite the cuff on his ankle. This isn't a man easily conquered. And Dean doesn't want to conquer him – he wants Cas to be a fighter, he just doesn't want Cas to fight him. He doesn't know how to accomplish that without breaking Cas down, and the thought squirms uncomfortably in him. It's wrong to want to break someone. And Dean doesn't want that.

The key, Dean realizes, is how much he takes good care of Cas. If he holds Cas, but he gives Cas whatever he needs, then Cas will be okay while getting to know Dean. Right? That makes sense.

He swallows, looking at Cas's naked body one last time It's going to be really, really hard not to think about this next time Dean jerks off, but he doesn't want to … to take that, when Cas hasn't offered it. He covers Cas with a towel and turns up the heat so Cas will be comfortable.

And he waits.

* * *

While Cas recovers, sometimes adorably grumpy and sometimes pissed (and trying to make deals that offer sex in exchange for being released, like Dean would just use Cas like that and dump him), Dean calls Anna again. "Hey, Anna. Uh, it's Dean. Of course, you knew that. Anyway, the point is I could really use your help, still. Cas knows about magic, but I can't confirm anything else that happened without you. I think it'd help a lot if … if he knew I was telling the truth. I want him to understand, you know?" Dean pauses. "Whenever you can, Anna. Thanks." He hangs up and puts his cell out of Cas's reach in the foyer.

He pauses there. Cas has refused to rescind his offer, and it's making Dean realize just how much he wants Cas that way. Of course he's never going to take it like that, but he also can't deny he wants Cas as more than a friend. He doesn't know if it will ever happen – probably not – but the desire is there and so very visible. Yeah, Dean's been turned on by Cas, and Cas has seen that, but it's like Dean's tried so hard to put that out of his head he forgot that Cas doesn't do the same thing. It tinges all of Dean's actions with a weird sexual undertone. Dean doesn't want to think of himself as that kind of guy, but maybe he is.

It's making Dean antsy. And kind of pissy. He and Cas have exchanged moods.

Then he heads to Cas's bedroom to get him up for breakfast. Cas is awake, blinking at him, and swathed in blankets. He kind of looks like a child that's been swaddled for comfort, because all that pokes out is most of his face and his wild hair. It's cute, and Dean grins at him as his worries fade away.

"Ready for some crepes?" Dean asks, deliberately cheerful.

Cas eyes him. "You're not carrying any."

"No more breakfast in bed, lazybones," Dean says with a smile.

Cas gives him a faintly amused look, then grimaces. Dean's at his side instantly, the grin falling from his face, but Cas waves him off. He throws back the blankets and very carefully leverages himself upright. He does let Dean hold his hand (it makes Dean feel like a teenage girl that it makes his heart race, but he decides to enjoy it anyway) and Dean stabilizes him on the walk up the stairs to the kitchen. Cas grips his hand surprisingly tightly, leaning on Dean on a way Dean knows Cas doesn't like to do often. The faint twinge it gives Dean's own knife wound is totally worth it.

Because as always, that small sign of trust is enough to make Dean content. It's those little gifts that keep Dean going. He doesn't think Cas knows that, and Cas would probably be conflicted if he did.

Every slight smile, every willing touch make Dean more determined to keep Cas here.

Cas devours the crepes. Before he'd really been in too much to fill his stomach, but he must be doing better today because he has six, and they're not that small.

Dean blathers on about a couple of possible hunts, talking about the phone work he's doing to make sure it's actually something he can take care of. Cas listens carefully, and Dean muses that he's probably keeping track of Dean's crimes.

After breakfast, Dean helps Cas into the den and then leaves to go take care of some practical things.

An hour later, he returns to the den, but he stops in the hallway. Cas is sitting on the couch, feet up, and he's running his fingers over his ankle cuff quickly and jerkily. He's rocking back and forth a bit, and then he runs his hands through his hair while he squeezes his eyes shut. He can't see Dean from this angle, but Dean flinches backwards anyway when Cas opens his eyes and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. There's panic in his face, but despair too. Cas swallows hard, and begins to take deliberate, even breaths.

Cas is suffering.

And yeah, Dean knew that this situation would place a lot of pressure on Cas's mind. He's alone with Dean and completely isolated from the life he had before. But Dean hadn't really _seen_ that.

Cas is trying to work through a panic attack.

Dean's seen them before. He's had three in his life, two of them after his stint in hell. Sam did, too, after the same. Dean will never forget the agony of watching Sam break down in the psych ward, trying so hard to cope and being unable to. The way he'd watch the corners of the room, and the smallest thing could make him curl him into himself. Even after Anna took on Sam's trauma, some of that remained. It made Sam sadder, softer, and in a way, more empathetic and calmer with victims on a hunt.

There's anger in Cas, too. He stares hard at the blank screen in front of him, then wipes his eyes.

Heart hurting and chest tight, Dean wants to rush in there and hug Cas. But would Cas want that?

Dean takes a deep breath and steps forward, deliberately making a lot of noise.

Cas starts and turns to look at him, and while Dean watches, the walls come up. Cas straightens his back and his expression shifts to one of calm curiosity. "Hello," Cas says.

"Wanna watch something?" Dean asks.

Cas shrugs.

Dean plops next to him on the couch and swings an arm around Cas's shoulders. Cas tenses up, but Dean keeps his hold both firm and relaxed, and after a moment Cas kind of gives into it with a small shudder.

"You know, you're a much better movie watcher than Sam ever was. You'll watch anything. And Sam, man, he always wanted those chickflicks that were about culture and the nature of man and shit. And it's not like I don't know the nature of man, we're all kind of morons who go around trying to live our lives, but we're still morons … You know what I mean, Cas?"

Cas is giving him a small smile. "No."

Dean sighs theatrically, and begins again.

Yeah. Dean can do this. He can make Cas happy. One day, Cas will trust him, and that pain he feels will go away. But it does make Dean fear that Cas will never see past the imprisonment. And it'd be understandable if that was the case, but Dean can't help but hope for more. Even as he remembers the dark look in Cas's eyes, the pain and fear and anger.

After three days of tenseness between them, that night when Dean asks Cas if he can come back to their bed – and Dean truly does think of it as their bed – Cas says yes.

* * *

Dean's cell rings faintly in the distance. He tries to remember where he put it – near the door? – then walks out of Cas's range to go find it. The coat rack continues to ring as Dean starts searching pockets, cursing his own laziness. When it stops ringing, Dean sighs. But he keeps looking until it appears in a weird corner of a jacket pocket, and takes it out to look. It beeps momentarily, and he sees a missed call (no voicemail) and a text.

 _I am coming. – Anna._

That means he has about two minutes. Getting that much of a social grace is about as far as he's been able to get Anna to concede to. He swings around to the kitchen and calls out, "Cas! Come to the kitchen!"

Cas walks to the kitchen, squinting at Dean in question.

"I got a text from Anna, she'll be by any minute now," Dean says, pleased.

And like magic, Anna appears with a flutter of air.

Castiel stumbles backwards, shock filling his face. "What the –"

Dean interrupts before Anna can give Cas a lecture on blasphemy. "Cas, this is Anna."

Anna gives Dean a fond smile, and Dean returns it. As much as they've been through together, Anna will always be Dean's friend. Yeah, they've fought. A lot, at times, and when Anna went wild and decided to deal with Crowley … well, that was a bad year. It didn't help that Anna stayed away from Dean so long in Purgatory, and that it took Dean a while to find Benny. With no sleep, no rest, just constant fighting, it felt like he spent years alone. And being alone has made him edgy ever since. But Anna and him, they're good now.

"Hello, Castiel. It's good to finally meet you," Anna tells Cas. She steps forward and presses two fingers to his forehead, following Cas when Cas flinches. "That's better."

Cas lifts his shirt – Dean blinks but doesn't look away – and pulls off the bandage Dean put there last night, revealing smooth, healed skin. "How did you do that?"

"Healing is an innate ability for angels. Only demons require power in the form of a deal."

Castiel stares at her. "Are you really an angel?"

Dean mostly watches the rest. Anna shows off her wings in a really cool way, revealing their massive shadows and playing serious hell with the bunker's wiring. Dean'd be pissy about it in any other circumstance, but Cas's slack jaw totally makes the maintenance he's going to have to do worth it. Cas goes through the usual questions – including asking about God – and then while he absorbs that, Anna fills him on the stuff that's been going on.

Heaven sounds like it's really reorganizing. Dean's happy for Anna. Well, for humanity too, because if heaven can get it's fucking act together that means things are better for everybody. Dean doubts Lucifer would ever have gotten out if that idiot Michael hadn't been helping. Some angels are worse than demons. But now, they've got a proper system of hierarchy and power, one that doesn't rely on sheer strength, but instead relies on good leadership skills. Anna's not the most powerful angel left, but she's smart and devoted to her siblings.

Speaking of. Dean stares at the floor. "And Sam?"

"Mending his relationship with your father."

Dean snorts, heart lightening a bit. He's happy that Anna is having the angels let humans travel around now. "Yeah, that'll take the rest of eternity."

Cas interrupts, face still pale. "Anna –"

"I think it is time for us to speak, Castiel," Anna says, and then taps Cas on the forehead. Then they're both gone.

Dean exhales slowly.

Anna didn't offer any explanation on what she intended. Dean's a little worried, he's not going to lie. Anna's understanding of social graces is awkward at best, due to an utter lack of desire to actually figure it out. She'd confessed to him once that it seemed like such a big fuss over little details, which change wildly in a few generations. Too much to keep track of, she said. Sometimes Dean forgets how freaking old Anna is.

He paces around the kitchen, wondering if Anna will make this worse or better. Most likely a bit of both. Cas will at least believe Dean's version of events, all the stuff about the apocalypse. Granted, Dean and Sam started the apocalypse, but they also had all of heaven and hell manipulating the both of them towards that end. Dean thinks that makes it somewhat understandable. And they ended it – Sam ended it by sacrificing himself. What Dean's done to Cas is horrible, but he's not a horrible person. Is he? Sam didn't think so, but then Sam isn't around to see that cuff on Cas's ankle.

Five minutes into Dean's downward spiral, Cas reappears with Anna. His eyes are wet, and sad when they meet Dean's gaze.

Then Cas steps forward and hugs Dean.

Dean's shocked, to say the least, and so it takes him a second to sink into that embrace. It feels amazing. Cas feels amazing. So close. And he's trying to comfort Dean. Dean holds on as tight as he thinks Cas will let him, as long as he thinks Cas will let him. "Hey," he whispers, touched beyond words.

"I'll take as my leave," Anna says, Dean barely hearing her. "Good luck, both of you." And she's gone.

"Where'd she take you?" Dean asks, one hand on Cas's waist. Still holding him, and Cas doesn't lean away or look at it, just lets Dean touch him.

"Does it matter?"

Dean has to smile. "Guess not." Not with Cas this … this affectionate.

"Dean –"

"Yeah?" Dean asks, cautious.

"I'm rescinding my offer," Cas says.

Those words feel like they can heal the world. Or maybe just Dean. It's more than just Cas saying he won't do that, it's an acknowledgement of their relationship not going that way. And no matter what, sex or no sex, that's a good thing. Dean wants Cas's feelings for him, whatever they may be, to be genuine. And now Cas is staring at him with sympathy and affection. Affection. The real kind. Fuck. Thank Anna.

The rest of the day is a happy blur.

* * *

Cas is curled up on the couch.

Dean is looking at him but trying not to look like he's looking, because Dean is an idiot and he knows that he's giving Cas a sappy look that Sam would have teased him about for centuries. But Cas is so beautiful, so bright, so smart, so kind. So everything. Cas isn't perfect, but damn he comes close. Who on earth decided Dean should get that kind of soulmate? Did they not realize what fuck up Dean would turn out to be?

"Why are you staring?"

Dean starts, realizing he got lost in his thoughts and kept staring longer than he realized. "Um, sorry."

"Dean. Why are you staring at me?"

"I love you," Dean says finally. "That's why."

A little crease appears between Castiel's eyebrows. "I see."

Dean flushes and looks down.

"You know, it's far more socially appropriate to look at someone while you're talking to them," Cas observes.

Dean looks up, feeling a smile rise. "Yeah. I guess it is. Whatchya reading?"

* * *

It starts with Dean having Cas read newspapers to find hunts (something for Cas to do, because Dean understands the impulse to be useful, and Cas won't stop talking about his job at the FBI), but it ends with a phone not called (thank fuck, how in God's green earth did Dean manage to convince him not to call his brother).

Cas had completely freaked out after handing the cell to Dean, but Dean was able to talk him down. And now he's here. He's curled up in Dean's lap, his head on Dean's shoulder. His hands were clutching Dean's shirt, but now that he's fallen asleep, they're loose and relaxed in his lap. He's even drooling a bit into Dean's shirt, and that shouldn't be adorable, and yet it is. Cas doesn't even twitch when Dean shifts around to get more comfortable, so his right arm doesn't fall asleep.

Taking care of Cas like this is has become one of the greatest joys of Cas's life. And yeah, Dean knows he's partially causing the need for comfort in the first place, but _Cas lets Dean take care of him_. He lets Dean make his favorite foods. He tolerates Dean's attempts at conversation, or just listens if he has no interest in the topic. He sees the intention behind Dean's blathering, and relaxes into every meaningless sentence Dean utters. He doesn't push Dean off, usually. He doesn't make smart remarks about it like Sam did. Instead, Cas just kind of lets Dean's caretaking sink in. It fills a need in Dean to be wanted.

Cas needs him.

And Dean will be there, always, whenever he does.

Dean caresses the side of Cas's face and then runs a finger across his lower lip, but Cas just sleeps on.

A dozen emotions are warring within Dean, but the strongest one is hope. Cas is starting to love Dean. That's the only reason Cas wouldn't call the FBI down on Dean's head – because Cas really, honestly cares about him. Maybe it's not something that could be called love yet, but it's not hate, and it's more than indifference. Cas cares and he cares about Dean more than he wants to escape. Escape at any cost isn't on the table, at least.

Fuck. Cas could love him. Dean could have Cas as his lover. As his everything.

After half an hour, even with love and trust and hope making Dean giddy, holding Cas becomes uncomfortable. Dean debates what to do for a bit, then figures if Cas wakes up, he'll figure it out then, but for now he'll take Cas to bed. He shifts around to get an arm under Cas's legs, and then stands awkwardly. Cas is a warm, solid weight, but he's so limp and relaxed that Dean almost drops him.

Dean lets out a relieved breath when he regains his balance, then takes Cas to bed. Once he lies Cas down, he studies him for a few minutes.

Then, not really thinking too much about what he's doing, he slides down Cas's pants. Then his socks. And last, his shirt. Cas sleeps right through it, and Dean muses that he must be physically and emotionally exhausted. Dean strips down to his boxers and curls up behind Cas in bed, flipping the covers over them both, and then lets himself fall into a light doze, his whole body pressed against Cas's. Lots of naked skin to naked skin. And yeah, that's something Dean wants, but he also knows that people can be starved of human contact. Dean has been. He didn't even know it until Cas let him hold his hand, but Dean had been starving. And Dean doesn't want that for Cas, so he holds him. Dean can feel Cas breathing, feel the roughness of the hair that leads to his cock when Dean puts his arm around Cas, his hand on Cas's bare belly.

Then Dean falls asleep.

He's fully hard and thrusting against Cas's back when he wakes up. Fuck. Time to get out of bed and take care of business. He flips back the covers, trying to keep them on Cas.

Cas, though, turns and looks at him.

"You're awake?" Dean whispers.

Cas nods.

Dean leaves the bed without jostling it too much, even though Cas is already awake. Then he kneels in front of Cas, watching as Cas observes him, a very odd look on his face. "How are you doing?" Dean says, voice still low.

"Why are you whispering?" Cas whispers.

Dean almost snorts. "Why are you?" Without thinking about it, he reaches out and touches Cas's cheek with the back of his hand. It's sappy, but Cas relaxes into it and Dean's heart almost breaks. He does it again, watching as Cas's lips part. Then the third time, he uses both hands to hold Cas's face, and kisses him.

Again. And again.

Cas opens for him with a small moan and Dean presses in immediately, licking the inside of Cas's warm mouth and then sucking on his lower lip, pulling out all the stops and tricks Dean knows about kissing. Cas responds to each kiss with the smallest of movements, his whole body hitching forward at one point, and then withdrawing, and then pressing his mouth against Dean's hard. His hands wander across Dean's stubble, and Dean wonders if this is the first time he's kissed someone with prickle.

Since Cas is still so relaxed, so open and willing, Dean climbs onto the bed. Fuck, he'll take whatever Cas is willing to give.

Dean's kisses get more intense, more purposeful. He's trying to arouse Cas, trying to get Cas hard. He doesn't know if Cas will throw up again or push him off, but as long as Cas shows the slightest sign of wanting this, Dean will keep going. He starts working hickeys onto Cas's neck and Cas thrusts upwards, almost meeting Dean's body as he moans. Dean can't help but let a similar moan slip out. Fuck, Cas is so hot. So fucking amazing. Dean's never been this hard in his life. He wants to bury his cock inside of Cas, but he knows he can't do that.

Not yet.

The thought makes him groan, makes his cock twitch in his boxers. Will Cas let Dean come on him? Dean starts exploring Cas's body, stroking the muscles he's only ever looked at, his pectoral to his hip, exploring every spot of skin. Cas has a scar on his abdomen from a gunshot wound, years and years old. Dean knows he's got half a dozen like it on his own body, and it just reminds him of how powerful Cas is, that Cas is a fighter. And having Cas here, moaning for him, is the most arousing thing Dean can imagine.

He slides his hand down Cas's treasure trail, towards his cock, but Cas grabs his hand forcefully and Dean freezes. "Okay," Dean whispers, planting another kiss on Cas's mouth.

Cas doesn't want Dean to touch him there. Okay. But Dean can show him how much Dean wants him, that he just wants to give Cas pleasure like the pleasure Cas is giving him. So he thrusts against Cas's thigh, letting Cas feel his cock for the first time. And fuck, the sensation of his cock dragging along Cas's thigh, even through his boxers, is intense. He kisses Cas as he does it, eyes open, and sees the shock and confusion flash across Cas's face, but also the arousal, the way his cheeks flush and his pupils are dilated. Cas isn't sure about this about in his head, but he's going to come from it. His body wants it.

Dean can take him there. Show him how good it can be. If Dean can get Cas's body to respond, his mind will follow.

And Dean, more than anything, wants both.

"I – oh, Dean," Cas says, voice higher than normal.

"Please," Dean pleads, only Cas's hesitation keeping him from coming all over Cas. "Like this? Please." He grabs one of Cas's hands, which are still by his side – he's not touching Dean in return, but that's okay, Dean can work with this – and kisses it like he can prove all his devotion in that one touch. "Cas, I want you so bad."

Cas stares at him, still aroused, but there's uncertainty and fear in his expression now.

Dean remembers that Cas has never slept with a man. This is the first time he's felt another man's hard cock. That thought makes a little bit of pre-come pulse out of his cock. No one has ever touched Cas like this, only Dean. Dean has to press a hand to his cock through his boxers to prevent himself from coming, even with the look on Cas's face. He takes a few deep breathes, regains control.

Cas doesn't know what to do, and the uncertainty is causing him distress. How can Dean help with that?

Hold him still. Hold him in. Dean lays with most of his weight on top of Castiel and matches his breathing to Cas's. Physical contact. Cas is tense and wired at first, but when Dean deliberately slows his breathing, Cas unconsciously matches it. Dean stares into Cas's blue eyes, willing him to calm down. To give in. If he lets Dean make the call, Dean thinks, then Cas will relax. Dean presses a hand to Cas's wrist, forcing him down. "Shh," Dean whispers, kissing Cas's ear. "Calm down. I'm here." Another to his neck. "I can make you feel so good, if you let me."

And Cas relaxes. Yes, yes!

"That's it, Cas. That's it. Can I touch you? My hand around you? My mouth?" Dean asks.

Cas opens his mouth, closes it, and then answers, "Okay," very small and unsure.

But Dean will make Cas come so hard he'll see stars. He grins at Cas, lifts off enough to slip a hand into Cas's boxers, and touches Cas's cock for the first time. It's so much larger erect, and silky smooth. Dean thumbs the head and then strokes, long and firm, from the base to the tip. Cas thrusts up and moans loudly and Dean does it again, and again, drinking in the sight of Cas fucking his fist. Cas is nearly wild with arousal now, his whole body jerking towards Dean, desperate and uncoordinated. "Oh fuck, you're beautiful like this," Dean says, and he means every word.

It's that look on Cas's face, that lost to pleasure look, that gives Dean the courage to slip a hand into his boxers, and pull his own cock out of the slit. He thrusts the tip of his cock against Cas's bare thigh, and he knows he's leaving pre-come behind. He's going to come on Cas's skin. Mark him. Dean may have a cuff on Cas's ankle, but his semen spilling across Cas's beautiful skin is something more, something Dean _wants_. He wants, he wants everything.

Cas grips Dean's arms, biting his lip and staring at him with dark eyes. He's so hard in Dean's hand now, but this? This is more. This is active participation. Dean kisses the center of Cas's chest, touched and amazed.

And then, with very little warning, Cas comes all over Dean's hand. Warm liquid spills across his fingers, into his palm, and Dean wants to lick it every trace of Cas's semen, but the feeling of it is enough to trigger his own orgasm.

"Oh, Cas," he breathes, and then he comes, hot and slick, on Cas's thigh.

It takes him a couple of minutes to come back to himself, the last of his semen leaking from the tip of his dick, and then get up. He pulls off Cas's stained boxers, resisting the impulse to suck on the wet spot, and cleans Cas off, and then himself. He finally gets to see Cas's cock, which is softening but still mostly full. Thick. Dean can't wait to suck it. His gaze drifts to Cas's face, but Cas is just staring at the ceiling with a blank look. Overwhelmed?

Tears slip down Cas's face.

Fuck fuck fuck. "Fuck, Cas, don't cry," Dean says, panicking now. Did he misread something? Did he go too far? He wipes away Cas's tears, and Cas doesn't flinch from that, at least. He hesitates, then grabs the blankets from the floor and wraps them around Cas, and himself. He maneuvers Cas until Cas is tucked in securely. Cas leans into it and Dean lets out a sigh of relief. "Shh, Cas. You did good. I love you, I love you so much," Dean whispers.

Cas's blue eyes meet his, full of emotion that Dean can't identify. Then he squeezes them shut and relaxes even further into Dean's arms. "I know."

* * *

Despite Cas's reaction, Dean's still on a high until morning.

After Cas cuts himself up by slugging the mirror and they talk, Dean runs through the night again and again in his head. Did Cas consent? Even thinking back, Dean doesn't know. Cas said yes, but …

Maybe Cas doesn't trust his own ability to yes or no. Dean's not sure why that would be, but it would make Cas's reaction make sense. Sure, Cas has shown stress, but Dean's not _hurting_ him, is he? And Cas keeps talking about missing his brother, and yeah. He can't let that one slide. He's been messaging Charlie about communicating with the FBI without being caught, and she's got some ideas, fortunately. He knows what it's like to go for long periods without family, and it's hard. And that's not even including Sam's death – but when Sam went to college, when Dad decided to hunt alone and all Dean had was the comfort of the Impala and random women along the way. And Cas doesn't even have that. He only has Dean and whatever gifts Dean gives him.

Cas doesn't have control over much in his own life. That would suck. Dean's been there, with the whole vessel thing and all. Dean's made some pretty stupid decisions under stress, too, like deciding to say yes to Michael.

Deciding to say yes.

Fuck. It's too neat a parallel to not have some ounce of truth in it.

Dean lost all his hope of victory, and gave in. Anna beat the crap out of him, and then Sam and Bobby gave him a talking to, but Dean doesn't think that'll work with Cas, even if he could actually bring himself to do it. Different beast. Dean's kind of Michael in this scenario.

What he does know is he can take care of Cas now. Yeah. He won't fuck up again. He won't. He'll be more careful, listen more, watch Cas more. Wait as long as Cas needs, or give up on his sexual desires completely if that's how it works out.

He'll make it up to Cas. Cas, who cared enough about Dean to say, _I don't deserve to be a prisoner, but neither do you._ And gave Dean his cell phone, tears in his eyes.

Dean stares at the massive refrigerator he just finished reorganizing. There's a walk-in, too, but Dean doesn't usually use it, and Sam bought this stainless steel monstrosity instead. It's probably the fanciest piece of tech that Dean has, excepting Baby, of course. But even it's not big enough to give Dean enough to do that he's forced to clear his head. Cas's tear-streaked face echoes in head, and each pulse of his heart brings back the memory of finding Cas bloody in the bathroom.

For a second, Dean thought Cas had harmed himself deliberately. But Cas had looked surprised by his cut up hand, so Dean thinks it was probably closer to an explosion of emotion.

Dean swings the fridge door shut and goes to check on Cas.

Cas is curled up on their couch, a book in his lap. His injured hand is held up awkwardly, like he can't find a way to set it comfortably. Dean grabs one of those ridiculous throw pillows that everyone seems to have but he's never seen the purpose of, and says, "Hey."

Cas glances up. He looks calmer, if a little distant.

"Can I?" Dean asks, pointing at Cas's hand and lifting the pillow.

Cas nods.

Dean carefully settles the pillow under Cas's hand, on his thigh, and then directs Cas how to lay it down. He's got some experience with fucked up hands, after all. Cas blinks at him, giving him a bemused look. "I've messed up my hands plenty of times," Dean explains. "Got some experience in what's most comfortable. We used to buy really cheap pillows from the dollar store and keep one in the car for things like this."

"Hunting sounds like a hard life," Cas comments.

"Hard on you physically, anyway," Dean says, scratching the back of his neck. "How are you doing?"

Cas looks away, not down, but to the side, almost like a dismissal. "Please drop it, Dean."

Dean sits on the couch, and then lifts one of Cas's legs, then the other, so Cas's lower half is in Dean's lap. Cas looks at him warily, but doesn't object. He starts to massage Cas's calves first, then his heels. Cas sighs and drops his head back, some of the tension leaving his body. His hand is heavily swathed in gauze, but Dean sees his fingers twitch.

It's taken time – a lot of time, more than five months – but Dean is learning Cas's reactions. What he'd initially perceived as blankness, or as trained calm, is really nothing of the sort. Because Cas had such a steady childhood and such a firm mental foundation, it's difficult to put him off balance. Cas doesn't freak out or struggle blindly; he thinks, he considers, he ponders. He figures it out and determines the best course of action. What Dean saw as training was Cas's natural way of handling the world.

When Dean sees Cas visibly struggle, he knows that whatever the situation is, it's stressed even Cas's ability to cope.

Blood hasn't leaked through that set of gauze yet, but Dean knows he'll have to change it by the evening. That blood is evidence of Cas's mind.

"Tell me about your childhood again?" Dean requests. He has an idea of how break Cas out of the funk he's in, how to help him.

"Dean, hearing about my scraped knees really isn't that interesting. I don't know why you keep asking."

"But it is interesting," Dean objects. "Everything about you is interesting, Cas."

"Love is blind."

Dean laughs. "Tell me, please? With a cherry on top?"

"If you give me a sundae with actual cherry, you have a deal."

Dean drops one of Cas's feet to point at him. "Done."

Cas is smiling now. Success. "Have I told you about Hael?"

"Younger sister," Dean repeats obediently. He digs his thumb into Cas's arch, and Cas's eyes flutter sut for a second.

"Only sister," Cas says. "One night I caught her coming in really late, when she was supposed to be in bed. Me and Balthazar were … uh."

"Uh?"

"Skip that part," Cas says, waving his good hand. "We were awake, that's what matters. She came in drunk and her lipstick smeared. Balthazar turned to me and said, 'Bets on how long she's grounded?' And Hael threw a fit. Said she was going to run to the Grand Canyon if either of us said a thing. I really wanted to just tell our parents in the morning and go to bed, but Balthazar insisted on a 'mutually beneficial arrangement.'" Cas pauses. "Saved his ass, too, Hael couldn't say a thing when she caught Bal having an orgy."

Dean bursts out laughing. "What?"

Cas shrugs with one shoulder, but he's smiling. "And he ended up the school teacher. I don't get it either."

"You miss her?" Dean asks, before remembering that's a rather insensitive question to ask. What with Cas being chained up in Dean's home.

"She doesn't read my letters," Cas says. He rarely reacts when Dean slips up and mentions the true circumstances of Cas's presence here, and Dean can't decide if he's being polite, or if he chooses not to think about it. Or if he's trying to avoid Dean's inevitable discomfort at being reminded that he's kidnapped Cas. "So in a lot of ways, no. In some, yes. But I'm used to it."

"Sam changed his number halfway through college," Dean remembers. "Felt like he was finally really cutting me off. Not like I called him anyway, but sometimes I checked on him, y'know?"

"But you reestablished your relationship with Sam."

Dean nods. "Yeah, I did."

Cas looks down. "I worry about Balthazar, though."

Dean kisses Cas's ankle. "I'm sorry." He lets Cas absorb that, then asks, "Do you want your sundae now?"

"Yes, please."

On some level, Cas is angry at him. But Dean is chipping away at that anger, bit by bit, and with each day Cas softens and accepts Dean's company and comfort more. Each day, Dean becomes more useful. He learns more about Cas, and the loneliness that sank deep into Dean's bones and hurt every time he breathed fades away a little more in the wake of Cas's smile.

* * *

Cas's hand hasn't completely healed when Cas get sick with the flu.

Dean wakes up first, as he usually does, but this time he finds that Cas is breathing with a little difficulty. Snoring louder, too. Dean crawls out of bed and stands by him, hovering over him for a minute, then he checks Cas's forehead and finds it hot to the touch. Cas isn't sweating, either, which means it's a fever that hasn't broken. Dean goes to the bathroom, gets a cold, wet washcloth and then returns to put it on Cas's forehead. He doesn't wake him up – might as well let him get as much rest as possible.

Instead, he goes to the kitchen and gets out the blender and frozen fruit to make a smoothie. That takes him about fifteen minutes, then he returns to their bedroom.

Cas is awake, with toilet paper in hand. The look he gives Dean isn't happy. "You got me sick," Cas accuses hoarsely.

Dean can't really deny it. Where else would have Cas caught it from? "Sorry." He lifts the glass of smoothie. "Hungry? It's cold."

Cas sighs and then holds out his hand.

Dean gives it to him and then sits next to him on the bed, checking Cas's forehead again. Cas doesn't even object, just starts sucking down the smoothie. Dean has to remind himself that Cas is sick, because the sight of Cas sucking hard on a straw is … well. Arousing. Everything about Cas is arousing, but some more than others. Dean clears his throat and looks away. "Do you need anything else?"

"Tissue." Cas pauses. "Movies?"

"Done," Dean says easily, and leaves to go get said items.

Dean picks out children's films. He knows when he's delirious with fever watching anything dark or violent tends to trigger his hunter instincts, even to the degree he's swung at Sam a time or two. Cas's life hasn't been as violent as Dean's has, but he's also definitely lived a more violent life than the average person. Strange things come up when you're out of your mind.

 _Finding Nemo_ is apparently pretty boring, because Cas falls asleep partway through. Dean takes the opportunity to clean up the area and start lunch, which is soup.

When he comes back, Cas is sort of awake. He looks at Dean with glazed eyes. "Bal?"

"No, it's Dean," Dean says, pressing the back of his hand to Cas's forehead. His fever is higher. "Do you recognize me, Cas?"

"I'm drowning," Cas says blurrily.

Dean blinks. "Are your lungs okay? Can you inhale all the way?" Pneumonia would be bad.

Cas grabs Dean's hand. "Bal, I'm drowning. Dean won't let me go and I'm drowning, I'm losing myself." He squints at Dean. "Castiel is gone."

Dean feels a chill run up his spine. He's frozen in place for a second or two, then carefully exhales. He redoes the now-warm washcloth with more cold water and places it on Cas. Cas's attention has shifted away from Dean now, with his gaze wandering around the room. After about fifteen minutes of that – the movie almost finished – Cas falls asleep again.

 _Castiel is gone. I'm losing myself._

Cas has become more and more entwined with Dean, there's no denying that. His life is composed of filling Dean's empty spaces. He's become softer, more responsive to Dean's needs and desires. That's not to say that Cas doesn't have fight left, because of course he does. The cuff isn't there for decoration. But does Cas view his kindness towards Dean as losing himself? A kind of surrender?

But Cas is still the same person. The guy who argues with him about stuff in the newspaper, who still checks all the locked doors every time Dean leaves on a hunt, and who still asks to be set free.

It's unsettling, Cas's words, but also confusing.

Lacking any way to figure it out, Dean makes another soup, this time a chicken noodle from scratch. He puts in a ton of garlic. That stuff is good for this, right? He also digs through the medicine cabinet and finds emergen-c, and makes a glass of that. He puts it all on a plate and heads back to Cas.

Dean runs his hand through Cas's sweat-damp hair. "Hey, there," he says softly. "You with me?"

Cas opens his eyes.

"Got some soup and something to drink. Think you can sit up for me?"

Cas nods.

Dean helps him up, then gives Cas the glass and makes sure he finishes it. Then he gives Cas the soup. "Cas … what did you mean when you said you're losing yourself?"

"Hmm," Cas says, and closes his eyes. The bowl sways a bit, and Dean has to grab it. Then Cas's eyes snap open. "I have to get out!" He tries to struggle to his feet.

Dean puts the bowl of soup aside and holds Cas's arms. "Cas, you can't get up, you're sick. You need to stay here." But Cas struggles, trying to twist out of Dean's grip; there's no real technique about it, it's a blind fight. "Cas!"

Cas leans forward and stares into Dean's eyes. "Have to run," he slurs.

"Tomorrow," Dean promises. "I'll take you on a run," he says, though of course he knows that's not what Cas means.

It seems to pacify Cas, though, because he sits back. "Wake me up in the morning, Bal," Cas says, and then flops down and passes out.

Dean watches him for a long moment. Cas. His beautiful Cas. Even like this, nose red, mouth open as he snores, Dean loves him. Dean gets a bowl of ice water and places it on his side table, and then lays down with Cas. After a bit, he manages to persuade a half-conscious Cas to come into his arms. And he holds him.

It takes two days for the fever to break, after which Cas rapidly recovers with very little memory of being that sick.

But Dean remembers. He remembers how Cas would wake up scrambling to get away, asking for his brother. And how Dean could calm him with the words, "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

* * *

A week before Cas's birthday – which Dean is totally planning for, he's got lots of cream cheese, Oreos, and some high quality baker's chocolate, plus a cell phone – Dean walks into their bedroom with a towel on his head, still a bit damp from his usual nightly shower. He forgot his pajama bottoms, so he's only got his boxers on. Cas is already in bed, a book in hand. He looks up when Dean enters the room, casual at first, then taking a brief second look. At Dean's boxers.

Cas flushes a bit and returns to the book. He shifts his lower body.

Dean pauses for a second, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. Did he see what he thinks he saw? Was that embarrassment or interest?

Dean decides to test it by dropping the towel on the floor and crawling into bed without going back to his room to get pajamas. Cas puts his book on the side table and Dean takes the opportunity to look at Cas's crotch. There's a little bulge there. Dean doesn't get more than a couple of seconds to look and then Cas is pulling the covers over himself and turning on his side.

After a second of hesitation, Dean curls up behind him. He jerked off in the shower, so he's not worried about getting hard, so he presses his entire body against Cas's back. Cas relaxes into it like he usually does, and Dean finds himself caressing the outside of Cas's leg, just long sweeps of his hand. Cas makes a tiny noise and then stills. Dean smiles in the darkness.

Maybe … maybe he can give Cas pleasure. Take Dean out of the equation. Would Cas like that? It'd be less stressful, less of a weird experience, because Cas has surely received blow jobs before. Yeah. Dean'll ask.

* * *

Honestly, Castiel's birthday goes a lot better than Dean expected. Cas is lying Dean's arms, curled up into a ball. He's not asleep, but he's pretending that he is. He's even faking the really deep breathing that people do when they're completely passed out. In fact, Dean can only tell Cas is faking because Cas still scratches itches and twitches every once in a while. Even though he's holding Cas in one hand, Dean has a book in the other while Cas drifts off.

It's a copy of a book Dean saw in Cas's library, written by David Rossi, about the psychology behind profiling and catching serial killers. It's more informational than some of the other books Dean saw, that dealt with specific cases. Dean found it in Sam's room when he went in to carefully dust the small amount of objects Sam left behind. Sam would probably really find it funny that someone whose work he read is now hunting Dean. And concerned.

Dean's finding it hard to focus on it, though. He can't stop remembering the taste of Cas's come. The feel of Cas's heavy cock filling his mouth and the way Cas had thrust into him when he came. The way Cas had arched his back, staring at the ceiling while biting his lip as his cock pulsed. His muscled stomach twitching, and his thighs trembling. It was beautiful and so, so hot.

For the first time in his life, Dean actually came without any physical stimulation, because he had to hold Cas down so that Cas wouldn't cause Dean to gag.

And Cas didn't freak out afterwards. He got a little clingy when Dean offered physical comfort, but that was it. It's a huge relief to Dean. He'd worried, even as Cas came in his mouth, that it would be traumatizing for Cas. Because Cas says yes, but it's like he's not totally sure why he's saying yes and then gets conflicted about it afterwards.

Plus, there's the phone call. Dean did his best to get Cas back into thinking mode, because Cas honestly does a lot better when he's analyzing shit instead of reacting emotionally.

"Cas, you awake?"

Cas sighs. "Yes."

Dean puts the book down on the bed. "Can we talk?"

Cas actually turns around at that, knocking Dean's one arm aside. "Dean, you hate talking about this kind of thing."

"Hey, how do you know I'm not asking about your farts?" Dean demands. "Man, some of your stinkers are stinky."

Cas bursts out laughing. "Dean."

Dean grins back at him, pleased with himself. "I actually wanted to ask you a question."

"All right," Cas says, now looking a little wary.

"Did you mean it when you said 'He's not what we thought'? Was that, like …" Dean hesitates. "What did you mean by that?"

Cas sits up completely. He eyes Dean, hands in his lap, then reaches out with one. Dean takes it, practically feeling his heart flutter. Sure, Cas accepts Dean's physical presence. But he rarely actually reaches out for contact, often depending on Dean to make the first move. Cas smiles at him gently, and a bit sadly. "I did mean it, Dean. You're not an evil person."

"Even after all this?" Dean asks, waving his hand at Cas's prison, and Dean's home.

Cas nods. "Even after all this. I'm not going to lie and say that taking me – keeping me here – isn't wrong, because it is. But I understand why. And you've suffered so much in your life to help others." Cas looks down. "I do admire that, Dean."

Dean feels like a teenage girl, but he asks it anyway: "Do you like me?"

Pain flashes across Cas's face. "Yes."

But joy leaps in Dean's heart.

"I shouldn't," Cas admits. Dean recognizes the emotion behind those words as shame. "I shouldn't, but I do." He shrugs, expression turning wry. "I even like your sense of humor."

Dean laughs. "Finally, someone appreciates my fart jokes."

Cas rolls his eyes. "Not that particular element of your humor."

Dean leans forward and kisses him, the lightest peck he can manage and still make physical contact. "Good enough."

Cas's blue eyes twinkle for a moment and his mouth curves into a smile.

Dean lunges for the camera sitting on the bedside table. He misjudges the distance and ends up on the floor with a loud thump, but then he's scrambling to his feet, grabbing the camera, and turning it on. But when he takes the photo, Cas isn't smiling. Instead, he's giving the camera an intently concerned look.

"Dammit," Dean says. "Not that I don't like concern," he adds, lowering the camera.

Cas just shakes his head. "Dean, you're an idiot."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean holds up the camera. "Smile?"

Cas smiles, and Dean captures it. Like he's captured everything about Cas.

After, staring at the photo, he realizes that if he loses those precious smiles, if he loses Cas, life won't be worth living. A few jokes later, Dean curls up behind Cas again, and this time Cas falls asleep easily, like some burden has been lifted off his shoulders. Dean kisses the nape of Cas's neck once he's deeply asleep, knowing Cas won't be woken up by it. Dean loves this man, and Dean will die if he loses him.

* * *

Dean comes to understand that while Cas likes him, is even fond of him, Cas also fears him. The pale, frightened look on Cas's face when Dean came back with a syringe is not something Dean will forget anytime soon. It makes Dean remember that fateful day when Dean kidnapped Castiel from his apartment. Cas had struggled like he was fighting for his life, and sometimes Dean forgets that that is exactly what Cas was doing. Cas thought he was going to die, there in his kitchen.

For Dean, it was the beginning of possessive love, but for Cas, it was the beginning of captivity by a serial killer.

There has to be a solution. A way to make Cas not fear him. Because yes, Dean's kidnapped him and his holding him against his will, but Dean's not going to _hurt_ Cas. He loves Cas.

It's jarring, sometimes, to see Cas with the cuff on his ankle. To remember that Cas is here by force. But other times it's a relief, a reminder that Cas won't leave him like everyone else has.

Dean doesn't admit it to Cas, but he has nightmares about Cas disappearing in the middle of the night. Walking away, and never coming back. Dean will wake up in a cold sweat, an echo of a gun barrel held to his temple by his own hand.

One afternoon, during lunch, Dean kneels in front of Cas and hikes up his pant leg, exposing the cuff.

"What are you doing?" Cas asks, bemused.

"Checking your ankle," Dean tells him, but that's not the entire truth. Of course he does check Cas's ankle for sores or things like that, but so far Cas has only slowly developed some calluses. Nothing like bed sores or even bruising, probably because the cuff itself is so light. Dean runs his fingers over Cas's warm skin, then the cool hardness of the cuff itself. And somewhere in his head, he thinks, _You're mine. You belong with me._ And the cuff is proof of it.

"It's all right," Cas tells Dean.

Dean looks up and smiles. "No pain?"

Cas hesitates. "Not anymore."

Dean stands up, giving the cuff one last caress. "Want to have lunch outside? Might as well take advantage of the sunlight." And Cas's new boundaries, much extended.

"I'd like that."

* * *

Tulpas fucking suck.

Cas is free, ankle unbound, and staring at Dean. Dean is easily able to see the realization cross Cas's face. The only thing standing between Cas and freedom is Dean. But Dean's not going to let Cas go that easily. No. Cas is his. Cas belongs with him, and Dean will take care of him, and love him, and Cas will one day accept that. Because Dean can't lose him. He fucking can't, because he'll fucking lose it and every piece of the person that is Dean Winchester will fall apart. It's selfish, and it's wrong, but Dean will make it right by loving Cas with everything he is.

"Cas, don't," Dean says, more desperate now than when he faced the tulpa about to kill Cas in that hallway. Danger he can handle. Losing Cas? It makes his heart beat fast with panic.

"Dean, I don't want to hurt you. I don't." Cas's expression is full of pain, but also, for the first time, a degree of pity. "Just let me go – I won't tell anyone where you are. _Let me go_."

"I can't," Dean says, and brings up his tire-iron.

* * *

Dean stares at the bottle of vodka, still sitting in the infirmary. He'd taken a swig after Cas patched him up, the first alcohol he's had since going off of it cold turkey on the hunt with Garth, just as a pain control measure. It'd been automatic, something he didn't think about at all. It wasn't uncommon for Sam and him to do after a hunt that left enough bruises and cuts to make sleeping hard, but not enough to use their stash of vicodin (which they had to steal, thus making it a hard commodity to come by).

Cas is sleeping, cuffed again, dazed from his concussion. Safe in bed.

Dean wants to be just as out of it, this time from alcohol.

He hurt Cas. Fuck, he hurt Cas so bad.

Not just physically, either, though he definitely gave Cas a pretty severe head injury. No, he'll never forget Cas's tear streaked face as Dean yanked him down the hallway back to the cuff. Or the feel of the bones in Cas's wrists grinding together. His scraped up his ankles and feet from being forcibly dragged. The way Cas went limp and sobbed, and because Dean is a bastard even then Dean didn't give up, just got his hands under Cas's arms and pulled him that way. Cas tried to crawl away from the sight of Dean holding the ankle cuff, even as injured as he was.

All those times Dean told himself he wasn't really hurting Cas were just him being delusional. Deluded.

And even then – even then, Dean made him put the cuff back on. Said, "I love you, Cas. I love your fight, I love how strong you are, but I need you here. Please put it on."

Dean wasn't lying when he said those words. They were pure truth. This is also the truth: Cas doesn't want to be here. He wants to go home, to his family, his job, and his life. And as fond of Dean as Cas is, that hasn't changed over the past eight months. Cas doesn't want to hurt him, and has in fact proved he _won't_ hurt Dean, but can Dean say the same?

He grabs the bottle of vodka and takes a huge drink.

There was the first escape attempt, too. Dean almost missed it, but there were a few tear tracks on Cas's face, blurred with the blood. The second attempt, Cas was mostly focusing on not making his knife wound any worse. Actually, Cas was mostly pissed after that one, yelling about how he should have fired that gun.

Two swallows.

The physical part of it is actually less important. Bruises heal. Wounds to the mind and soul don't. Dean knows that better than anyone.

He finishes the bottle. He stumbles drunk into Cas's bedroom and takes his pillow from the bed and puts it on the floor. Then he lays down with it, on the cold, hard ground, and falls asleep.

* * *

Dean wakes up hungover, of course. At four in the morning. His mouth is dry like a desert and his head is pounding like someone took a mallet to it. He wants to throw up, but manages to stifle the impulse. His muscles practically creak when he finally stands up. He spends a minute or so stretching, just enough so he won't fall into a door or something and knock himself out. One concussion in this household is enough.

Cas is asleep, still. Dean kneels in front of the bed and lays one hand on Cas's forehead, half checking for a fever, half just wanting to touch him. Cas opens his eyes fuzzily.

The words pop out before Dean can stop them: "Do you want me to let you go, Cas?"

Cas looks confused. "Bal?"

"Should I drop you off at home?" Dean persists. "If you say … if you say so, I will."

Cas squints at him, then closes his eyes.

He doesn't remember it in the morning, and Dean is secretly relieved.

Because Dean is a fucking coward.

* * *

Dean is pushing around scrambled eggs (seasoned with just salt and pepper, to be easy on Cas's stomach) and thinking about what a total fuck up he is. He's maintaining a strong face in front of Cas, a total certainty about what he's doing, but internally, he's just about screaming his head off. He hurt Cas. It repeats: he hurt Cas. Cas is not only suffering from a concussion, but he's falling into a deep depression. Getting him to eat is like feeding a non verbal toddler. He's not only picky, but he can't even explain what he wants because he can't summon the mental energy to say it.

Dean hides it, but as Cas sinks further into depression, Dean copes by drinking. He's not even hiding the bottle where Cas couldn't find it anymore, because Cas isn't in the mood to go looking. They're both drowning, and Dean feels helpless to stop it.

But he talks. He talks endlessly to Cas.

About Sam, about himself, and about life. His baby, the Impala. Various hunts he's been on and all his thoughts on all the people he's met. And Dean's met a lot of people that he came to care for and yet lost: Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Ash, and dozens of others. They all hurt to lose, especially to a war that Dean was at last partially responsible for. But when he imagines losing Cas – Cas dying, Cas fading away, Cas just being fucking gone – it feels like the world is ending.

It feels like it'd be losing Sam, all over again.

Dean's cracked. Cas would break him for good.

It occurs to Dean that the best course of action might be to let Cas go, and then put a gun in his mouth. Two problems solved. But he promised Sam, he _promised_ Sam that he wouldn't do that. It was one of the last things he ever said to his brother. Sam wanted Dean to live. Did Sam want to live even at the expense of another? Sam would say …

Dean shuts that down. No. He can't hear those words.

The eggs are burning. Dean curses, turns off the heat, and throws them out, and starts fresh with another pan. He breaks the eggs one by one into a bowl and stirs, throws in some salt and pepper. Starting again. Starting fresh.

Maybe that's what he needs. To start anew.

Take care of Cas, better than before. Hell, if Dean isn't a total moron and doesn't give Cas any opportunities to escape, then this won't happen again, will it? Cas was a bit stressed just by the cuff, yes, but otherwise he was doing fine. It's only when the option of escape is presented that Cas really loses it. So the key is to not let that happen. Cas can't get any chances. Then Cas will heal, and Dean can keep him, and it'll be okay.

He doesn't burn the eggs this time. He gets it right. He plates the eggs, grabs a fork, and then heads for their bedroom.

Cas is propped up with about a dozen pillows, so he's almost in a recliner. He opens his eyes dully when Dean enters, but he does actually respond to Dean's presence, so Dean counts that as a win.

"Scrambled eggs," Dean says, grabbing another pillow and putting it in Cas's lap. He sits close to Cas, holding the plate still. "Fresh, cooked slow so they're nice and soft. I know you've been nauseous, this'll help."

Cas looks away.

Dean gathers some egg on the fork and takes one of Cas's hands, trying to make him hold it. Cas refuses, though, still not looking at Dean, just keeping his hand slack. Dean pauses, worry and fear and guilt a heady mix, and then takes the fork and presses it against Cas's lips. "You need to eat, Cas. I'm sorry you're going through this, but you need food."

Cas opens his mouth. Dean puts the eggs in and watches him chew, remembering when he had to massage Cas's throat to make him accept water.

"I love you," Dean says gently. And he does. He fucking loves everything about Cas.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut and doesn't respond. But he lets Dean feed him the rest of the eggs.

"I'll take care of you," Dean whispers. "I'll always take care of you."

That night, instead of sleeping on the floor, he curls up with Cas. _Please, please be mine_ , he thinks.

* * *

Cas is struggling, but he seems to be improving. Sure, yeah, he hit on Dean and then freaked out and screamed that he hated Dean, but that's to be expected. It hurt Dean, yeah, but expected, and Dean doesn't honestly blame him. Dean's guilt is trying really hard to eat him alive, but Dean's been fighting it off with his actions, with taking care of Cas, with coming up with plans and plans so Cas can't escape again – take that pressure off of Cas's mind – and with a growing sense of possessiveness. Dean finds himself running his fingers along Cas's cuff, imagining what would have happened if Cas had won that fight with Dean.

The thought makes Dean want to hold Cas tight.

But yeah, Cas improves. Eats a little more. Jokes with Dean a bit. Meets Dean's eyes. Dean gets him adult coloring books and forces him to eat lunch outside. He takes Cas on walks, and then on runs when Cas becomes more cooperative. He listens to anything Cas says without judgment. He doesn't get angry, not about anything. And Cas seems to bloom in summer. Dean feels like a gardener trying to grow a rare and precious flower, and with each loving touch and action Cas seems to get a little better.

Boy, was Dean wrong about that.

Returning from his first hunt since Cas's third escape attempt, the last thing he expects to find is Cas outside and covered in blood. The cuts on Cas's hips are deep. Dean knows they'll scar.

But Dean understands. Beneath the physical wounds are the mental ones. Cas is expressing them the only way he knows how. And when Cas says into Dean's shoulder, clinging to him, "I can't be left alone. You can't leave me here, Dean."

Dean answers, "I'm here, I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'm not going to leave you ever again, okay? You're going to be fine. I love you and I'll always take care of you."

If it's the last thing he ever does, Dean will put Cas back together.

* * *

Dean decides later that somewhere between slashing his hip open and asking to sleep naked with Dean, Cas accepts his presence in Dean's life.

* * *

Dean's actually really trying to sleep this time, eyes firmly closed. Cas is completely naked in his arms, but Cas didn't want sex the first time and Dean seriously doubts he does now, either, so Dean puts aside any thoughts, just focusing on the miles of warm skin he's pressed up against. It feels amazing, like Cas will melt into Dean and put all his broken pieces back together. Dean doesn't know why Cas makes him feel that way, feel whole, but he does.

Then Cas touches him. Runs his hand from Dean's shoulder to the small of his back, just above his ass. With his other hand Cas touches Dean's chest, hand wandering from there to Dean's stomach. Then his first hand runs along the fleshy part of Dean's ass, distinctly sexual.

Dean's cock begins to harden, never mind he jerked off half an hour ago. "Cas," Dean says, blinking.

Cas kisses him. Deeply and without hesitation, he firmly explores Dean's mouth. After a second of hesitation, Dean responds and returns that kiss, meeting Cas's level of intimacy, but not exceeding it.

Then Cas grabs Dean's cock.

Oh fuck. Fuck. Dean moans really loudly, his cock filling rapidly from that one touch. Cas isn't even stroking him yet – oh fuck, yet. Cas just kind of explores Dean's cock, fingers finding the base of his dick and where his balls hang, then tracing the vein upwards until his fingers meet the tip of Dean's cock, swirling the liquid there.

Dean keeps kissing him, but he's almost not able to focus on that, because Cas is caressing his cock for the first time. Being active in sex for the first time, instead of passively accepting Dean's advances. "Oh, Cas,oh fuck," Dean says and then curls a hand around Cas's cock.

And they begin to jerk each other off. Cas copies Dean almost completely, matching his strokes, the same degree of firmness to his hold. Cas's eyes are bright and open, watching Dean intently. He's not hiding.

This is everything Dean has ever dreamed of. Cas being a willing partner. Having sex with Cas. Oh fuck, having sex with _Cas_. Dean honestly feared they would never make it here, that Dean would always be jerking off to the image of Cas's mouth, to the memory of Cas's silky cock in his hand, that he would always come to an imaginary sight instead of the actual person. He wants to come, he wants to come _right now,_ but he holds himself off. He focuses on the feel of Cas's cock in his hand, the soft skin, the texture of his balls when Dean's hand meets the base of his cock.

Cas squeezes Dean's cock tight, and it's enough to push Dean over the edge. He bites into Cas's shoulder to stifle his cry, and then he comes all over Cas's hand. He barely notices Cas freeze. "I love you," Dean says to his lover.

Then Dean regains control, and gently pushes Cas's hand away from his softening cock. He urges Cas onto his back and to spread his legs for Dean, and Cas does with no hesitation. It makes Dean's spent cock twitch, that willing submissiveness. He smiles as Cas, his heart leaping, happy in a way he's been so few times in his life. Happy in a way before he could only attribute to Sam. It's not just about the sexual release, but Cas accepting Dean into his life in this way.

Cas gives Dean a small smile, and Dean wants to cry. Instead, he blinks rapidly, and then rubs his semen into Cas's skin. Marking him. Making him Dean's. And Dean wants that, oh how he wants Cas to be his, completely and forever. Just like this. "You look incredibly hot like this," Dean tells him, licking his lips. "Hard, with my come on your belly. If you'd let me, I'd take a picture of you like this."

He doesn't give Cas time to ponder that. He sucks in Cas's cock and hums on it and licks the head and pushes his tongue into the slit.

Cas says, "I want you," soft and desperate, and then he comes, hot and bitter into Dean's mouth. Dean swallows.

Dean kisses Cas, willing Cas to taste his own semen in Dean's mouth, how Cas has marked Dean in return. Then he presses every inch of skin he can against Cas's skin. Touching as much of Cas as he possibly can, hoping Cas feels the very deep love in that contact. And Cas curls into it, accepts it, presses into it, eyes soft and kind. Dean knows this is just the beginning of the sexual part of their relationship. There's no fear or worry or regret in Cas's eyes. Dean will guide him through the rest.

And before he falls asleep, Dean thinks that it's all been worth it.

* * *

They have sex once more. Cas comes with Dean's finger in his ass, and lets Dean decorate his beautiful ass with Dean's semen, but he seems a little uncertain about it, so Dean doesn't initiate sex again, not for a while.

But later that day, Dean locks up all the alcohol and takes chlordiazepoxide, the drug Sam left in the medicine cabinet for alcohol withdrawal.

Cas is laughing. "What are you doing?"

"Finding the damn camera," Dean says, grunting. He's leaning over the couch, scrambling for the camera that had fallen down behind it. It's one of the couches in another room (not the den) that's original to the bunker. They sometimes come down here for the fireplace, and sometimes Cas reads here. That's why Dean was here, and he totally did not mean to trip and have the camera flying out of his hands. Dean's a hunter, he's graceful. Really. He finally stands up. "Are you going to help or not?"

Still looking amused, Cas puts his hands on the one side of the couch, and asks, "Ready?"

Then they push it out of the way. Dean grabs the camera with a triumphant look, then tries to turn it on. It remains dark. "Dammit," Dean says. "Must be the batteries."

"I think the moment has lost its spontaneity," Cas remarks, sitting down on the couch. "You know if you really want to capture me smiling, all you have to do is make a fool of yourself. Works every time."

Dean gives him a dirty look. "I'll make you – look foolish …" Dean trails off, not sure where he was going with that.

Cas grabs his book, a thriller of some kind from some author Cas likes. "I bet," he says dryly.

Dean flops next to him. "Why do you read so much?"

"What do you mean?" Cas asks, puzzled.

"I mean, I read. Sometimes. Not a heck of a lot, but I've read Vonnegut, you know? But I don't read nearly as much as you do. I need to get out and be active."

"I'm active," Cas objects. "Plenty physically active."

"You know what I mean."

Cas pauses. "I like being in another world. Being filled up with someone else's thoughts and dreams instead of my own. Like … like for a little while, I'm not myself."

That's a little disturbing.

"It's not a bad thing, Dean," Cas adds. "It's a healthy coping mechanism for stress."

"If you say so," Dean says. "As long as you're happy, I'm happy."

Cas smiles slightly. There's a short silence, then he says, "I'm happy."

* * *

Sneaking out of bed to take care of an erection isn't a new thing. Dean wakes up hard fairly often, because who wouldn't with Cas's naked body so close? So Dean shifts around so as not to disturb the covers – cold air will wake Cas up – and then he pads silently to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He leans against the cold bathroom wall and fists his cock.

He imagines Cas pressed up against him, thrusting his cock against Dean's, Dean grabbing his ass and encouraging him to move. As he thumbs the head, he imagines Cas kneeling in front of him, taking the tip of Dean's cock in his mouth, and Dean moans, "Oh, Cas," because damn, that would be amazingly hot.

Then the door opens and Cas enters. Dean freezes. "Cas …"

Cas looks at him calmly, studying him, but his cock his half hard. Then Cas silently steps forward and knocks Dean's hand away from his cock, and replaces Dean's hand with his own. Then he slides his palm down until he's at the tip, then swipes the liquid there with his index finger. And then he sucks it down, making a slightly thoughtful face at the taste.

Dean moans, feet slipping a little. His cock jerks, and he's not far from coming. Cas just tasted Dean's pre-come.

Then Cas kneels. Dean has to press his hand at the base of his cock to stop himself from coming at the sight. Cas looks a little uncertain, but he's focusing on Dean's dick, staring at it with something of a determined look. Then he takes the head in his mouth and begins to suck. It's gentle suction, and Cas stops and starts, like he's figuring out how to give a blowjob. And he is, Dean remembers. Cas is a virgin to having sex with a man. Dean's cock is the very first he's sucked. The only one. The last.

Dean almost comes from the thought. Dean is taking this first from Cas, and that makes the arousal sitting low in Dean's belly nearly explode. _Mine_ , he thinks. "C-Can I come in your mouth?" Dean asks. "A minute more of that and I won't be able to hold back."

Cas pulls off long enough to nod.

"Oh," Dean says, not able to get anything else out. And within a minute, Dean's coming in Cas's mouth, into that tight, wet heat.

Cas withdraws, making a face, and then gags, spitting on the floor. "Sorry."

Dean's knees are still weak, so he can't bring himself to care, and that was actually a pretty mild reaction for the first time trying to swallow. "Don't be." He drops to the floor and knocks Cas's arms out of the way and then sucks Cas down, getting as close as he can to deep-throating him from this angle. He moans and hums on Cas's cock, because damn, Cas always tastes so good, and then Cas comes.

Dean swallows, content. He sucks very gently for a moment longer, then lets Cas go. "I have to ask, what prompted that? Not I'm objecting, because that was absolutely amazing."

"Dean, are we lovers?" Cas asks, face serious.

"In my mind, we are," Dean says. He doesn't let the fear he feels show. In his mind, he and Cas have been lovers for a long time, since the first time Cas let Dean touch him sexually. He didn't know if it would last, if Cas would ultimately reject him, but he's been faithful to Cas since he took him. Cas is everything to Dean. Everything. "You're the only person I ever want in my bed, Cas. For the rest of my life."

And Cas just nods solemnly. "That's why."

Dean feels like he'll break from happiness. He helps Cas to his feet, grinning, and then laughs a little when Cas rubs his sore knees. He lays Cas in bed and kisses those sore spots lovingly, then kisses Cas's thighs and up to his beautiful, sated cock. When he gets in bed and pulls up the covers, Cas comes to him first, curling up with Dean.

His lover. Cas is his lover. Dean falls asleep smiling.

* * *

So. Dogs.

Cas needs … Cas needs another Dean, really. Someone loyal, faithful. Perhaps a bit more energetic than Dean is, in his approaching old age. Perhaps a little more of everything, all considering. Dean's honestly not much of a role model. A dog's love for Cas would be a lot more pure, that's for sure.

Dean feels a lot of things for Cas, and some of them are definitely pure. All the little details that make up Cas that Dean loves – that's a pure love. The way Cas's nose scrunches when he laughs really hard. His strength and calm. That he loves to read, that he's so kind to Dean, even though most of the time Dean really doesn't deserve it. Those are pure. Of course, Dean's desire for Cas's body isn't. Their sex life is incredibly satisfying, and Cas's little leaps into new positions – each one really a first time – make every encounter different.

But Cas needs someone besides Dean. Cas needs a companion for when Dean is gone. Because Dean still wants to hunt. He loves Cas, but if he gives up hunting, it would feel like Dean wouldn't deserve to have Cas feel a thing for him in return. Like Dean's only worth is in proving that Cas isn't wasting his time by being here with Dean. It's an unsettling thought, but a true one, and it won't disappear no matter how much Dean tries. Because as long as Cas is being held here, Dean has to prove that. Prove his worth.

Anyway. Dog.

* * *

"I've never understood the appeal of talking to a dog," Dean says, catching the last bit as he stops at the doorway. He watches Cas, amused. He wouldn't have thought Cas the type to talk to dogs. Or plants. Not that Cas had plants or anything when he was working. "She doesn't understand a thing you say."

Cas shrugs. "She understands emotion."

Dean considers that. "Yeah, I suppose that's true." Cas seems to have adapted well to having Aditi present, and Dean is pleased. "You like her?"

Cas stands and gives Dean a soft look. "I love her."

"Then I love her, too," Dean says, and lightly kisses Cas. "I love it when you smile like that," he says, coming close enough to feel the heat Cas's body is putting off. He searches Cas's face for uncertainty and worry, but he doesn't find any. Instead, Cas's laugh lines are faintly visible. He touches the corners of Cas's eyes, then runs his thumb along Cas's lower lip. "You have laugh lines."

Cas's next words startle him. "Dean, why can't you let me go home?"

Dean goes cold. "I can't lose you. You know that." He almost looks away, but manages to maintain eye contact.

"What if we continued to see each other, even after?" Cas asks, a little desperate. "The FBI wouldn't have to know."

That's the last thing Dean expected to hear. But Dean's not sure he believes that. Cas may have given up on escaping in the immediate sense, but Dean still gets the impression that the cuff is needed. The cuff soothes a part of Dean that still admits that Cas would run. If Cas went back to his life … what would he really think of Dean? With so many telling him that Dean is a monster? "Do you mean that? Honestly mean that?"

Castiel looks away. Fear and a bit of anger there.

It gives Dean strength to speak the painful truth. "I know you don't love me, Cas. You care about me, and I will never stop being grateful for that, but you don't love me how I love you. You'd run," Dean whispers. "You still would. I see it in your eyes."

"I don't want to hurt you," Cas says, finally looking up.

Dean nods, breathing deeply. "I know."

"Dean, I may not be able to fall in love with you like this. Not when being with you is against my will."

Fuck, is this about their first time? "I'd never rape you –"

"I don't mean that. I mean, how can I love you when you're my captor? Really?" Cas stares at him hard. "Dean. What if I can never return your feelings like this? When in some way, I fear you?"

Dean's mouth opens and closes. Fuck. He wanted to put that fact out of his mind, the fear Cas showed when Dean held the syringe. "You fear me?" he asks at last.

"You would hurt me to keep me here. You _have_ hurt me to keep me here. Dean, kidnapping someone to be your spouse is a sign that your mind isn't healthy. How do I know that you won't snap in some other way? Some way I can't even predict?"

"I'm not crazy," Dean snaps. "Not like that. I'm not. I went through the fucking apocalypse and hell and I came out relatively sane. I'm not – I'm not going to snap on you, Cas."

"Then never mind that. How am I supposed to –"

Dean cradles Cas's face in his hands, willing Cas to understand him. To understand that Dean can't take the risk, because he loves Cas too much. "I'm sorry, Cas. I am, I'm sorry. But this is the only way. You're an FBI agent, you're legally bound to turn me in for crimes I didn't even commit and that I can't prove I didn't commit. If I had bumped into you at the coffee shop, you would have arrested me. And I don't blame you for that, but this is the way it is."

"But I _know_ that now, Dean. I wouldn't turn you in."

But Dean can't believe it. He can't. He wishes he could, because he dreams of having Cas in the passenger seat of the Impala, joining him on a hunt. Bound to Dean not by the cuff, but by choice. To give himself to Dean. But Cas isn't there yet. Cas may never be there. And Dean will take what he can get.

Cas's entire body is tense as he squeezes his eyes shut. "What if I can't love you, Dean? What do you do then? Keep me chained up here forever?"

"I don't believe that, Cas. You're my soulmate," Dean says softly. "But even – even if that was true. I can't lose you. Not any of you, any part of you that you're willing to give."

Aditi whines.

Cas won't look at Dean.

"Okay," Dean says, backing up. "How about I get Aditi some food? I've got like, another six bags in the car."

Dean slows once he gets outside, and then ends up just standing in front of the Impala, staring out.

Maybe Dean is wrong. Maybe in order to keep Cas, he has to give Cas a little piece of freedom. Freedom with Dean, of course, not to just run. It's been probably a year since Dean even considered letting Cas out of the bunker. Back then, he was mostly thinking about how he should set Cas loose, but maybe that doesn't have to the case. If Cas chooses to stay with Dean, then they could go out together. If Cas promised to stay, then Dean would let him go.

* * *

Sex with Cas drives Dean more and more wild.

Dean wakes up hard in the middle of the night, muscles still a bit sore from sparring with Cas. His cock is half full and pressed against Cas's back, leaving a few trails of wetness. Dean touches himself, strokes himself once, thinking more about other things than fucking Cas. Cas is a beautiful fighter, all clean lines, almost like a dancer. Dean's more of a brawler, though of course he's got a lot of training, too. From Dad, but also from the few hunters that Dad regularly dealt with, like Caleb. Pastor Jim spent some time in the military, too, and was damn good with knives. Once Dean kind of patches some of the weaknesses in Cas's style, Cas starts to take him down regularly.

But when Cas is holding him in a submission position, or he's got a wooden knife to Dean's throat, there's never a desire to hurt Dean there. Never anger. Just intensity.

Dean slides his cock between Cas's butt cheeks, rubbing the head of it against Cas's hole. He can feel the furled muscle there. Cas keeps sleeping – he must be tired, that's usually enough to wake him up – and so Dean sucks on a finger and begins pressing it into Cas's body. Cas shifts a little like he's reacting, and then the muscle gives way. There's something about putting his finger in Cas's ass that feels like taking control, like Cas is giving him control. Submitting.

Rather than touch Cas's cock, Dean wriggles his finger around, letting his arousal build slowly. He sucks on a second finger, and adds that. He spreads them apart, stretching Cas.

Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't training Cas to like this. He always pairs fingering Cas with a really intense orgasm, and Dean knows that now Cas's cock will start to fill just from having Dean stretching his ass. Anal sex isn't for everyone, not even all gay men like it, but Dean loves it. Loves sinking his cock into another man, and this isn't just another man, this is _Cas_. Dean has wet dreams about fucking Cas and coming into his ass, claiming that last bit of Cas. Like if he marks Cas everywhere with his semen, that Cas will really be his. Every time Cas lets Dean finger him, Dean knows he's getting a little closer to actually fucking him.

Maybe anal sex shouldn't be as significant as it is, but Dean doesn't care. He wants it. He wants Cas. He's greedy, but he wants everything that Cas will give.

Now Dean's fully hard. He bites his lip, debating where to take this.

Cas wakes up with a start. "Dean?" he asks blurrily. "Hmm."

Dean stretches Cas's ass a little farther. "Gonna let me come on you, Cas?"

"All right," Cas says sleepily.

Dean takes out his fingers and rubs the head of his dick against Cas's hole. It's still a little relaxed, like with a little pressure Dean could pop in. Dean wants to, he wants to so badly, but he holds off. Cas hasn't given permission yet, and honestly Dean thinks that's a bit away. So instead he jacks off, determined to mark Cas's skin. Maybe someday Cas will let Dean have him entirely.

All Dean wants is for Cas to be his.

He comes hard against Cas's ass, semen spilling between Cas's cheeks and thighs. Claiming Cas.

Cas makes an irritated noise. "You better clean that up."

"You're killing the mood, Cas."

"You can go suck it," Cas says lightly.

"Oh yeah? Then I will," Dean says, getting up and pushing Cas onto his back before going down on him, Cas's half-hard cock filling his mouth so sweetly, so perfectly. Dean loves the taste of Cas's come. He sucks for a while, then pulls off to add, "Since you asked so nicely."

Cas laughs, his belly twitching under Dean's hands, and then comes into Dean's eager mouth.

* * *

Cas is smiling when Dean leaves for his first hunt since giving Cas his dog, Aditi.

* * *

Dean wakes up in a hospital bed with his head killing him.

Damn cursed objects and their protection spells. One of those, okay. Doable. Done. But both? That's how Dean ended up in a nearly abandoned road, trying to remove the last protection so he could burn the stupid locket into slag. And it's not like an abandoned road is the best place for that normally, but if the thing was going to explode or something better it be in the middle of nowhere. Taking out the first spell layer put his partner on his back in a motel room.

So of course Dean ends up in the hospital.

He represses a groan and opens one eye, scanning the room. There's no one in here with him – the other bed is empty – but he hears someone talking on a radio outside. He can't make out words, but it sounds like a police radio, and that's confirmed when the static ends and a man's voice responds. Fuck.

Dean throws back the blanket and starts looking for his stuff. He finds it under the bed in a bag, pulling on his jeans and checking his phone. If the police know he's here, that means it won't be long until the police really figure out who he is, and then the FBI gets involved. He needs to ditch anything that could lead back to Cas. He shoves his feet into his boots, pulls on a t-shirt and then creeps to the door, listening.

" – check it out. I think you may be right about his identity. He's clearly not John Paul Jones."

Dean flattens himself next to the door and waits.

The cop moves through the door with his gun still at his hip, but not holstered. Dean goes to disarm him first, succeeds, and then gets his arm around the cop's neck. He's not nearly as good as Castiel, so Dean gets the hold right the first time and after a second or two the cop passes out. Dean lowers him gently to the floor and takes his police radio. He stuffs the cop in a corner and then casually walks out of the hospital.

It's daylight, and the sun is bright. Dean's car is presumably still near the abandoned road, so he walks through the parking lot until he finds an older car that will be easy to steal. It's a really old compact, but it's so bland that it won't catch anyone's eye. He picks the door lock and then jams a bolt through the inanition and turns. The car starts up, and Dean starts driving. He heads in the general direction of the Impala. Halfway there, he pulls over in an alleyway, finds a private home's trash, and dumps his phone. Then he gets back on the road, silently hoping the local cops will be as incompetent as they usually are.

But within a few minutes, Dean sees police cars all lit up racing down the road. Dean doesn't panic; he keeps driving sedately, leaning back with his hand propped up to cover his face.

A police car going the other direction squeals as it turns around and gets on Dean's ass. Dean slams the accelerator.

Fuck. A car chase is the last thing Dean needs.

He drives wildly, two other police cars joining the chase. Dean desperately tries to pull up his memory of the local streets, but in the end he takes random turns, trying to lose his tails. Within a few miles, he hits a dead end road that hits a storage facility. Dean gets out of the car and hops the fence, and runs like hell.

"Police! Stop!"

Dean turns a corner and hits yet another dead end. It's like fate is fucking with him.

"Police!" Closer this time. "Freeze!"

Dean looks back and sees five cops holding guns on him, expressions grim and determined. "Well, I'm popular today," Dean says with a smirk.

The cops aren't amused. "Hands over your head! On your knees!"

And so Dean is caught.

* * *

Okay, so this isn't normal. Cuffs, yeah. But Dean's completely chained up in his prison cell. His hands are cuffed together and so are his feet, with a chain linking them. Dean muses that it's the same restraint he used to keep Cas under control in the trunk of his car. But it's not typical police procedure, not for someone newly caught. Even someone with Dean's background would generally be treated that way, simply because it's easier for cops to have standard procedure. All Dean did was knock out a cop in the hospital. He should have been cuffed on the ride over and while he was booked, but released once safely in a cell. But not this time. And the cops are being really cautious. Dean hasn't had a single opportunity to grab even a paper clip, and they even found the small one Dean keeps in his shoe.

The FBI's been busy, apparently.

Dean half-sleeps, muscles getting sore, and then by late evening he's brought out of his cell and cuffed to a table in an interrogation room. His ankles are uncuffed, at least, so Dean spreads his legs and rolls his ankles, trying to loosen himself up. The police Mirandize him, and Dean signs a waiver that means he'll be able to talk to the cops. And the FBI. Dean wants to know what they know, what they think. If Dean's going to be stuck here for a while, he might as well get something out of it.

These are the other only people that Cas knows. They were Cas's friends. Dean has to admit he's curious.

He recognizes Derek Morgan, of course. One of Cas's teammates in the BAU.

Dean doesn't expect the way Morgan lays into him, although he probably should. He pokes Dean with Cas first, asking how Cas is. And of course, Cas is fine. Totally fine, safe at home. But then Morgan just – just – that fucker.

Dean's still steaming. The shit about Sam. _Is this what your father taught you? That to keep someone, you take them away from the people who really love them? Is that how you kept Sam? Did you murder Jess?_ _They didn't want you. They didn't need you, did they? Not like how you needed them. And now they're dead and gone, and quite frankly probably happier for it._ And yeah, Sam's in heaven, with Jess, with their parents, with everybody. And he died and left Dean, but he did it for the fucking world, not that this asshole would understand that.

But the worst was, _We're not living in your sick fantasy anymore, Dean. You do know that Castiel doesn't love you, don't you?_

Because Dean fears those words. He fears that reality. Cas cares for him, cares for him a lot, but he's never said _I love you_. It grates. It burns. It hurts, the way only a feared truth can.

"But you're wrong," Dean said. "I love Cas, I really do. Just having him near me – that's enough. I'm happy with that. And I will spend the rest of my life making him happy. I will get out of here and go back to him, and hold him in my arms and love him. And your bullshit story doesn't change any of that. So. Fuck. Off."

And then Agent Morgan left. Whatever they were trying to get out of Dean, they didn't get it. Trying to shake his faith in Cas? No. Dean knows what he knows. Morgan knows nothing. He hasn't been living with Cas for eleven months. He doesn't know Cas the way Dean does. Dean doesn't think any of them ever did, because getting into Cas's mind and heart is something that takes work. Hard work, and persistence, and love. And they don't love Cas like Dean does.

The woman, Agent Jareau, is different.

She talks about Cas.

As much as Dean is still pissed, Dean never gets to talk about Cas. No one that Dean is friends with even knows he has Cas. And to be honest, Cas is pretty much Dean's entire world. So Dean finds himself opening up, answering her concerned questions. He doesn't want Balthazar – or even the BAU, really – to worry about Cas's wellbeing. Dean is taking good care of him. Cas is happy. And once Dean convinces her of that, or at least kind of convinces her, Jareau opens too, telling Dean little tidbits. Like the fact that Cas got named after the angel of solitude because he didn't cry when he was born. Dean had always wondered about that, but Cas never directly answered his questions about it.

Dean talks about Cas to her, too. All the stuff he knows. All the stuff he loves about Cas.

Without even realizing it, he even talks about kidnapping Cas. "But I wasn't expecting him to freak out like that, I swear. He'd been doing really good, you know? He'd adapted to his life at home. Having him just weeping like he wanted …" Dean shakes his head. "But I took care of him. I want you guys to know that. I'm always there for him, I give him whatever he needs. I love him."

Jareau nods. And when she asks him about letting Cas go, Dean tells her the truth. He's thought about it, when Cas was sobbing in his arms. Jareau spins him around the topic gently, just keeping up with the small questions, waiting for all his answers. It even seems like she believes he loves Cas.

At last, she says, "Loving him means letting him go and letting him choose his own happiness. Dean. Do you understand?"

Dean looks at her, heart aching, and doesn't respond.

"Please, Dean. Tell us where he is."

"I can't," Dean says quietly. As rough as the past eleven months have been, it's been worth it. And Cas is happy. Cas said so.

* * *

Dean spends the first half of the night with the guards rattling the bars on his cell every hour, clanking them with their nightsticks. When Dean finally loses his temper and yells at the assholes, they beat the crap out of him while saying he's causing disorder and resisting being moved from his cell. The later half is occupied by being treated, and then praying to Anna again to get him out. So by morning Dean's tired, bruised, pissed, and not entirely sure he wants to talk to the FBI.

Jareau's pleading for him to let Cas go struck an uncomfortable chord. In between a nightstick being dragged along his cell bars was the real pain in her voice. Dean has his head buried in hands when the officers come by to move him to interrogation, trying desperately to block it out. He can't imagine what the other agents would do, what they would say, and he's not sure he wants to find out.

He's put into interrogation silently and cuffed to the table. Dean looks at his hands, remembering all the times he's cuffed Cas just like this. The cold metal against the surprisingly slim wrists that he loves to kiss. The way that Cas would move his hands in circles to keep the muscles loose. He'd make a fist and then release it over and over again and then change the angle of his body in relation to the cuffs, trying to make himself comfortable. And he'd do it quietly, never saying a word to Dean about it hurt his wrists.

He'd smile at Dean instead.

Fuck. Dean is a monster.

The door opens, but it's not one of the BAU that walks through. It's Balthazar, Cas's brother. He's blond and older than Cas, with a more wearied face, though Dean still has the impression that most of those lines were caused by laughter. His eyes, though, are so similar to Cas's that it's actually eerie. It's almost like Cas is looking at him, except instead of a kind of sad affection, there's anger and bitterness.

Balthazar sits down. "Where's my brother, asshole?"

Keep cool. "Bal, right?"

Balthazar's cheek twitches. "Yeah, that's me."

"You don't look much like Cas," Dean remarks. Not with the blond hair and totally different skin tone.

"His nickname is Cassie, and I take after – you know what, who gives a fuck." Balthazar's blue eyes smolder. "Where are you keeping my little brother? Where is he?" he demands, his voice going higher, more stressed.

Dean winces. A roil is beginning in his gut, and it dances to the tune of the word monster. "I can't tell you that." _I can't lose him._ "But he's fine."

Balthazar actually rolls his eyes. "Oh, oh, and I'm supposed to be believe a serial killer when he says that – I'm so comforted!" Sarcasm drips from every word. "What the fuck is wrong with you? How dare you act like – like you can even say a damn word about Cassie. Where is he? Where did you take my little brother?"

Cas would want Balthazar to believe he's okay. That's what Cas would want. Cas might want to be – no, don't think that. Dean can't think about that right now, not when Cas is alone with his dog, with a cuff on his ankle. Chained. "I know it sounds insane, but I love him," Dean says, wishing Balthazar would believe him. "I do. I would do everything to keep him happy, but I can't let him go. I need him, Balthazar."

"I need him," Balthazar shouts. "His family needs him! His friends! And even if we didn't, he's a fucking human being not your fucking pet!"

Dean feels a tinge of anger for the first time. He knows Cas. So does Balthazar, but Dean does know Cas. "I know that. He's not my pet, he's my soulmate. I swear to you, he's fine. He's healthy and strong and he reads a shit ton of books, and he makes fun of cop movies and demands cinnamon toothpaste. He's okay. He bitches about how I like too much salt, he throws books at me when he gets frustrated. I know him, and I love him, and he's safe with me." Dean halts, breathing a little fast.

Balthazar's eyes fill with tears. "Please, please, I want my little brother."

Dean had a little brother he would do anything to protect. "I'm sorry," Dean says, to both Balthazar and Sam.

"If you were really fucking sorry you'd tell me where he is!"

Those words hurt. And they should, because the truth does. Dean is sorry, but he's not sorry enough. "I can't. I can't."

Balthazar breathes for a long moment, just staring at Dean. "How – how is he? Does he ask about me?"

This is easier to answer. "Yeah. He talks about you sometimes, along with your parents and sister. Quiet about Michael, though. But I haven't found a good way for him to communicate with you. I mean, without being caught. And Castiel was wary of writing letters, he thought it'd freak you out more if you weren't able to answer."

Balthazar looks devastated. "He's wrong." He speaks like the words are painful. "And he should get the chance to tell me in person."

"I can tell you anything you want to know," Dean offers, and he knows it's half because he's trying to soothe his own desperate guilt. "Except where he is. But anything else. I'm sure Cas wouldn't want you to worry about him."

"Are you kidding me? Do you even realize what you've done?"

"Yes!" Dean finally snaps. The words are a jumble as they come out of him, a spilling of truth he can't help. "I know. Of course I know. Yes, I kidnapped your brother and I'm holding him against his will – this is not new. Yes, I'm totally aware of how fucked up that is! But you know what?" _I've lost everything once. I can't do it again_. "My entire life has been fucked, so there's no reason to stop now."

"What if he starves to death while you're in prison?" Balthazar asks out of the blue.

Dean blinks. That's the last thing he expected them to bring up. "That won't happen," he says, knowing he's put multiple contingencies in place. Not just Charlie, but Anna too, and Garth.

"You're willing to put my brother's life on the line? Because you love him so much you'll risk his life?"

"He's surrounded by a hundred years of protections and he has everything – food, shelter, company." The very best of the Men of Letters and the culmination of all he and Sam learned in the fight with heaven and hell. "He'll be okay."

The anger goes out of Balthazar's eyes. He leans in and says haltingly, "Please, fuck, please just tell me where he is. He's my baby brother, and I know he's an FBI agent and he's strong, but he's the kid who kissed his little sister's skinned knees, the one who calls me every week and listens to all my shitty stories, and he _doesn't deserve this_."

That knocks the breath out of Dean. And finally, Dean can't shove down what he knows Sam would say. Sam would look him in the eye and tell him, _You have to let him go, Dean. You can't make someone love you_.

"They told me you had a baby brother, wouldn't you do anything for him? Anything to keep him safe? I want my brother home, can't you understand that?" Each word is a strike.

Dean opens his mouth, but he has no idea what he would say.

"Don't you dare tell me he's already home," but it comes out pleading. Balthazar is weeping now. "Don't do this. Please, let him come home."

"I'm sorry –"

Balthazar leaps across the table and punches Dean in the face. It's a pretty hard blow for a school teacher, and Dean instantly feels his lip split open. Dean is still chained to the table, so there's not much else for him to do except sag backwards and try to take the next blow without tensing up too much. There's the sound of multiple people entering the room all at once, and Balthazar's flailing body is dragged away.

Dean's not angry. "It's okay, it's okay, I'm fine," he says, looking up at Agent Morgan.

"Where is he!" Balthazar screams, like a wild animal.

Dean can give him one thing, even if he can't give him Cas. "Listen to me. If I die, if I don't go back, then someone will come and let Castiel go."

Balthazar stills in Morgan's grasp. "What?"

"You're right, I wouldn't put him in that kind of danger." Dean's words come out a little slurred, because of the injury to his mouth. "So if you can keep me here long enough, Cas goes free. You deserve to know that."

"I hope the next time someone decides to rough you up, you end up dead." There's a dead hatred in Balthazar's eyes. That's fair.

But Dean swallows. He can't do this. Not anymore of this. He feels his resolve to keep Cas cracking, and he can't let it crack, because then Dean will finally break into a thousand pieces, matched by the bullet he'll put in his brain. He looks over his shoulder and says to Morgan, "I want a lawyer. And I'm taking my Fifth Amendment right."

A medic looks at him, and then he's taken back to his cell. He doesn't speak to anyone. Even when they come for him the next day to drag him to federal prison, he doesn't speak. They don't give him a cellmate, presumably because Dean is considered too dangerous, and so Dean spends most of his time staring at cinderblock walls, praying to Anna.

He says a few other prayers, too, to a God who probably doesn't care, and even he can't detangle what he's asking for.

To keep Cas. To save Cas. To have the strength to let Cas go, or to make him happy.

Five days later, Anna appears in his cell, like an answer. "Hello, Dean."

* * *

Dean looks up and smiles.

Dean finds himself looking at Cas differently.

At first, it's the little things. Cas doesn't ask very many questions about Dean meeting the BAU and Balthazar, like he has difficulty thinking about it. Then it's the larger things, like Cas giving Dean a blowjob after Dean admits that his friends and family are still looking for him. It was an awesome blowjob, but when Cas looked up at him with eyes glazed with arousal, Dean's heavy cock sitting on his tongue, Dean wondered if Cas sucked him off because he felt he had to. Or because giving Dean sex is just the way things are. Then Cas swallowed, and Dean wasn't thinking about much of anything except how hot Cas is, and how much Dean loves him.

Cas always gives Dean more and more, and Dean will never stop being thankful. He even asked Dean to fuck him.

But in the darkness of night, Dean wonders if Cas really wants him. If he's tricking himself into this, into wanting Dean, into enjoying this. Of course, yeah, Cas will get aroused when Dean talks about how much he wants Cas, how much he _needs_ Cas. It fills Cas's cock right before Dean's eyes. But Cas hasn't said he loves him, he hasn't said he'll stay.

When Dean asks about it, Cas freaks.

And so Dean drops it. That night, before he comes against Cas's ass, he kisses Cas's ankle lying on his shoulder, relieved to see the cuff still there.

Cas is still his.

* * *

Garden work is exhausting, and so Dean sleeps deeply enough to dream. He dreams of Cas in the car with him, the Impala flying down a black highway. It's not the first time he's had this dream, but this time, Cas is laughing and smiling. He's not in the trunk, or handcuffed in the backseat, like the last time Dean dreamed of taking Cas outside the bunker. He's in the passenger seat, tapping the door and looking out the window.

"Do you love me?" Dean asks Dream Cas.

Cas answers, but his words are blurred out.

* * *

Cas is naked on the bed.

This isn't new, but Dean still stops to appreciate the view. Cas is still slim, a little more than Dean would honestly like, but he's also pretty muscled. Especially since he's been working in the garden, Dean knows that Cas's back is very defined now. His sparse hair decorates his body perfectly, accentuating his cock, which lies soft against his thigh. Dean has touched and kissed every part of Cas's body except for one. He's been inside of Cas's mouth, his semen filling Cas's belly. But he's never come into Cas's beautifully toned ass.

Cas finally looks up. "What?"

Dean shifts, his cock filling. "Do you still want me to fuck you?"

Cas stills for a second, then draws his limbs in like he's hiding.

"Talk to me," Dean says encouragingly, sitting next to him and laying a hand on Cas's thigh, finding the wiry hair there sexy. "I can tell you have misgivings or whatever. What are they?"

Cas frowns a bit. "I know it's not logical, but …"

"Yeah?"

"You'll have had all of me, Dean," Cas says, flushing and looking away. "Everything I have, you'll have taken."

Dean hesitates. He can't deny he wants that. He wants to take every first, and every last. Maybe that's it – Cas doesn't think Dean really wants him forever? This isn't just about sex for Dean, it's about love, it's about claiming Cas as his, it's about them being together. "Do you mean you fear I won't want you after? After I've had that part of you?"

Cas shakes his head. He straightens and meets Dean's gaze evenly. "That I will have surrendered to you completely."

Dean's cock twitches. Yeah, he'd like that. Having Cas now, and forever. It's not just arousing, it would also sate Dean's fear of Cas leaving him. "Well, I can't deny I want that. Not because I want to control you, I just – I just want you to be mine as much as I'm yours. Look, I'm not one for metaphysical sentimental shit –"

"But you believe in soulmates," Cas interrupts with a raised brow, clearly teasing.

Dean relaxes a bit. "But, yes, I want us to have all of each other."

"So I get to fuck you?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yes." Cas's cock in Dean. Yeah. Dean wants that. Not yet, he wants to have Cas more, but he definitely wants that. "Cas, I love you. I want this. But if you say, then that's that." He doesn't want Cas to say no, but he can't push.

Cas examines his hands, then his gaze drifts up Dean's body, pausing once to fix on Dean's hard cock. "All right. Yes."

Dean's heart leaps. "You won't regret it," he assures Cas. "I'll make you feel so good, I swear."

Cas's smile is small but sincere.

Naturally, Cas is going to be tense and nervous, and that's the last thing Dean wants if he's going to fuck Cas. For Cas to feel the most pleasure, Cas will have to be completely relaxed when Dean sinks his cock into him. Dean knows from extensive fingering that Cas likes the sensation of being spread open and fucked, it's just a matter of convincing his mind that it will feel good. And to do that, Dean will have to start with Cas's body first.

He starts with a gentle massage. Cas's back first, from neck to toes, and then he flips Cas over and does his front. Cas is half hard by this point, flushing a bit like he's still a virgin. Dean kisses his cock lightly, pleased. Well, maybe Cas is a virgin, in this one sense. Dean keeps his caresses slow, firm, and long, and feels Cas relax beneath him. Stroking Cas from shoulder to wrist in one motion, then the same on the other side, and down Cas's legs. Yeah, that's good. Much better.

"You're beautiful," Dean tells Cas. He pushes Cas's legs up, exposing his hole. But he doesn't start there yet, instead sucking Cas's cock into his mouth, humming as he goes down on him. He bobs his head until Cas is completely hard, then grabs the lube they keep near the bed and puts one finger up inside of Cas, unable to stop a laugh at Cas's squeak. He twists and turns it around, not only stretching Cas, but also just giving him the sensation of his insides being massaged.

This is where Dean's dick is going to go. He can feel pre-come leaking out of his cock.

Two fingers, then a third pressed against that tight ring. "Oh," Cas says. "Dean. I don't know if that will fit."

Dean's never given Cas three fingers, but it was partly because he wanted Cas to really feel the thickness of Dean's cock, when they finally got here. Cas will be loose enough. "Don't worry," Dean says, pulling off, "it will."

Three fingers, and then Dean goes for Cas's prostrate. Cas clenches down tight on his hand, and just from experience Dean knows that Cas is close to coming, so he puts his other hand on the base of Cas's cock, preventing him.

"Dean," Castiel groans, sounding almost like he's in pain.

That sound echoing in Dean's head, he brings Cas close to orgasm again and again, but continually denies Cas enough stimulation to come. If Cas is desperate to orgasm, he's not going to be thinking so hard about Dean fucking him, or be really feeling any kind of second thoughts. Not that Dean wouldn't listen, but worries can fuck up some really good sex. And this will be good. Dean's dreamed of sinking into Cas's tight ass for so long that he can't imagine it not being completely fantastic. And Cas is so responsive to this.

And Cas is spread open on him. Exposed. His. "Three fingers, Cas. I wish you could see yourself stretched around me."

Cas blushes, hips twitching downwards to push Dean's fingers farther in. It's adorable.

"Cas, trust me," Dean says. "Fuck, you look so hot like this." His cock jerks just thinking about what's next. "I'm going to move you around a bit, okay?"

Cas almost rolls his eyes. "Do I get to come?"

That hint of Cas – his snarky, grumpy Cas – makes Dean grin. "Yep."

Dean scrambles for the lube, getting a dollop and putting on his cock, stroking himself lightly. He doesn't want to come immediately. He wants this to last. He catches Cas looking at it, a little nervous again. He gives Cas a reassuring smile, and then gets his arms under Cas's thighs, spreading him even further open and adjusting Cas's hole so it will be easier for Dean to fuck him.

"Fuck, you're so flexible," Dean says, panting, and then moves forward. He uses one warm to keep Cas in position, and the other to keep his cock steady.

Then he presses the head against Cas's hole. He's going to take Cas, split him open with Dean's cock. Dean's thought a lot about his desire to claim Cas, to make Cas his, but right now it feels like this will be the last time he has to do that. Cas is giving him everything, the last part of himself that he kept separate from Dean. Cas belongs to Dean now.

Cas gulps. "Dean."

"C'mon, you can take it," Dean says, excited almost beyond words. The furled muscle is a little tense, and Dean wants him to relax a little more so it won't hurt going in. He circles Cas's hole with cockhead, pushing in a little each time he reaches the center again. "Let me in."

Cas bites his lip. Dean, overcome, presses forward and the head of his cock slips in. Oh fuck. Oh. Cas is taking Dean's cock.

"Fuck," Cas moans. His hips twitch restlessly, like he's not sure whether to try to lean away from Dean's dick or into it.

"Oh, Cas," Dean says, barely able to get the words out. "You feel so amazing, so tight around my cock. Can you take the rest?"

"I –" Cas stops. He blinks rapidly. He looks overwhelmed.

Okay, so Dean needs to take control. Sometimes Cas freaks out when he has to make decision for himself, when he can't figure out what he really wants, or he feels conflicted about it. So Dean will take over. He'll make this good for Cas, make Cas come on Dean's cock. It'll be the best orgasm of Cas's life, Dean will make sure of it. "Relax," Dean says, and thrusts. He fucks Cas by half-inches, watching his thick cock spearing Cas open, taking him slowly. Cas tightens on him, his hole clenching on Dean almost like it's on purpose, squeezing Dean's cock rhythmically. "You feel, oh, I can feel you tighten on me."

Cas's cock is going a little soft, so Dean strokes Cas with his free hand. Cas's body eases somewhat into that stimulation.

Dean takes the opportunity that slight relaxation offers and thrusts all the way in, balls deep. Cas yelps, but Dean almost doesn't hear it, lost in the sensation on his dick. Cas's hole is so incredibly tight on him, and Dean remembers it's the first time Cas has been fucked. He's never given this to anyone else. Dean stays there, dick warm in Cas's body, and breathes hard. This feels so amazing. Cas is trusting Dean with this last part of himself. Cas is trusting Dean. Dean strokes the stretched rim of Cas's hole, eager to begin fucking him properly. "You're so tight. I can't believe you're letting me to do this, take your cherry."

Cas squints at him, and despite the yelp he doesn't look upset. He looks kind of insulted, which is cute. "I am not a virgin."

"You are in this," Dean says dryly, smiling. "Well, were." That's Dean's now. "You ready for me to move?"

"Not to increase your ego, but you feel huge. Will that hurt?" Cas asks, a bit of uncertainty in his eyes.

"Maybe a little," Dean admits, "but you're relaxed enough and lubed well, it'll turn good quick," Dean promises, giving Cas a tiny thrust.

Cas gives his own cock a small stroke. "Okay."

Dean withdraws a small amount, then thrusts back in. He fucks Cas like that, gentle. Cas licks his lips and seems to choose to consciously relax, and that lets Dean fuck him deeper and harder. Cas moans a bit, and Dean starts pulling out almost all the way and shoving back in. Cas's rim is dragging along Dean's cock, offering an incredibly amount of stimulation, and internally, Cas tightens on him randomly. It's like Cas's entire body is trying to give Dean pleasure, rippling along Dean's cock. Dean fucks him harder, and harder, until he's slapping into Cas's body with so much force the sound echoes in the room.

Wet, slick sounds. Dean suddenly wishes he could record this, that Cas would let him. Then he could watch himself fucking Cas while he fucks Cas again, and again. Cas's face is red and he's panting, and his eyes are dilated, full of pleasure and arousal. He's stroking his cock loosely, mostly seeming to focus on the sensation of Dean's cock piercing him over and over.

"Waited so long for this," Dean says, and it's true. He dreamed of this so many times, waking up to find himself rubbing along Cas's back, and wanting so desperately to just be able to push Cas onto his stomach and thrust in, and take what he wanted. And now Cas is letting him.

Dean changes the angle of his thrusts to try to hit Cas's prostrate, and Cas cries out. Dean does his best to hit that spot every single time, wanting to watch Cas come undone. He wants Cas to come from Dean's cock. Dean pushes Cas's legs even further up, wanting more. To get in deeper.

And Cas lets him.

"Mine," Dean whispers. "You're mine. Mine." And Cas is. Love and relief flow through Dean along with arousal. Cas is his. Cas won't leave. Dean owns him, and Cas has let himself be owned. Fuck the FBI, and the world. The doubts Dean's had about Cas wanting to be here fade away. Cas is his.

Suddenly, seeing Cas come is all Dean can think about. He needs to see it. He grabs Cas's cock and strokes firmly. "Come for me," Dean demands. "Please."

"Oh, Dean," Cas says, and then a jet of semen comes out of his cock. His ass tightens down hard on Dean's cock, almost making Dean come, but Dean holds it off, watching avidly as spurt after spurt lands on Cas's belly. Cas's orgasm is long, one of the longest he's ever given Cas, and Cas is entirely lost to it, his entire body going tense and then limp. His eyes close as his cock jerks one last time.

And Dean fucks him. Takes Cas. He has to hold Cas up and in a good position, but Dean doesn't care about the strain on his arms. He drives into Cas's ass again and again. _Mine_ , he chants in his head. _Cas is mine. You're mine. You belong to me._ Thrust. _Mine_. And Cas just takes it, even when he comes back to himself and looks at Dean, he stays open and relaxed. There's nothing but trust and lingering pleasure in his blue eyes.

Dean has a sudden, dizzy vision of him taking Cas out, away, somewhere, and fucking him in the back of the car. Having nothing on Cas to keep him there, but Cas letting Dean fuck him anyway. Take everything.

Then he comes.

He falls forward, half landing on Cas, but Cas reacts by taking his weight easily, and then lowering Dean onto him.

Cas won't let Dean finger him, but Dean figures he can see his come leaking out of Cas's ass another time. Because there will be another time. Now that Dean has had this from Cas, he's not going to stop, not as long as Cas lets him.

So he asks, "Was it worth it, though?"

Cas's smile is sweet. "Yes."

* * *

Dean has that dream again. Dream Cas is sitting in the passenger seat, and they're listening to some indefinable rock music. Cas taps the door panel to the beat, looking out on the black highway. Dean has the sense that they're driving fast, but there's no worry about other drivers. There's the only the two of them, together.

And Dean asks Dream Cas, "Do you love me?"

Cas answers, words clear, "I love you."

Then Dean wakes up, and his dream comes true.

* * *

The idea of taking Cas out is a gradual progression. It starts with Dean's dreams, yeah, but there's other things that add to it. It's actually when watching Cas outside that the notion starts to seriously present itself. Cas looked out on the horizon like he was missing something so desperately, and had no hope of ever getting it back. After a while, he'd looked down and taken a deep breath, and exhaled the sadness away before looking up at Dean and smiling.

That's Cas.

But Dean thinks that maybe he can take that longing away now. Cas loves Dean, and that means something, doesn't it? Dean will have to be cautious, but he knows for a fact that Cas won't hurt Dean by setting the FBI after him, and that combined with Cas's feelings for him – surely that means that Dean can trust him enough to take him out? With some precautions?

Sure, Cas had a panic attack when Dean pressed him about it. But Cas does that sometimes, and Dean understands why – that it's hard for Cas to verbally reject the life he once had, even if he's at least partially done so in action.

Christmas comes before Dean figures out exactly what he wants to do. It's a wonderful Christmas, full of sex and gifts. Even after coming to the bunker, Dean and Sam didn't fully celebrate the holidays, not with a tree and decorations and the full nine yards. It just wasn't a thing they did, not full out. But with Cas, Dean kind of felt like it was expected. Cas celebrated Christmas, right? He's a normal person.

And Cas is cute when covered in glitter.

* * *

In January, Dean gets the GPS working. In February, he puts it on Cas.

And he watches Cas fall apart.

Cas is on the verge of a panic attack the entire time he's out of the bunker, starting with him taking his first steps into the kitchen. Dean stares at him as Cas breathes fast and his entire posture changes, curling in on himself. He's barely able to respond to Dean's statements and questions, eyes wide as he looks at everything like it's completely new, completely different than anything he's ever experienced. He relaxes a little when he gets into Baby, gaze actually wandering over her interior.

It gives Dean a bit of hope that things will be okay.

Cas closes his eyes no problem when Dean asks, settling in like he's going to take a nap. Dean did seriously consider blindfolding him – this is one of the precautions Dean wanted to take, so Cas couldn't figure out where the bunker is – but Cas is perfectly obedient and doesn't open his eyes until Dean tells him he can. When Cas looks around at the town, he grips the door handle like it's keeping him afloat.

"I'm – I'm fine. It's just so strange. To see people," Cas says, just barely visibly trembling.

Seventeen months. That's how long it's been since Cas has seen anyone besides Dean, with the exception of Anna, who isn't even human. But Dean was in purgatory for a year, and he spent most of that alone, and he's okay. Cas will recover, Dean is sure of that.

Taking Cas into an actual building with people in it is at first nerve-wracking. Dean can't help imagining Cas turning to a random person and saying, "Help me, I've been kidnapped by this man." Or a cop walking in, and all Cas would have to do is say, "Help!" With this many people around, it wouldn't take much for Cas to just walk away. The only way Dean could stop him is physically, and people would likely interfere with him dragging Cas outside and putting him in the car. Dean doesn't know if he'd take out his gun, which he is of course carrying, in order to force Cas to come back with him. But he probably would, out of sheer desperation. So every word Cas says makes Dean's heart race.

But Cas doesn't cry out for help. He clings to Dean instead, nearly mute. Dean almost has to drag him into the grocery store.

Dean has never seen Cas so frightened like this. This is the man who reacted to his kidnapping with nearly absolute calm. Even the few times Dean got angry and made Cas fearful were brief and mild in comparison. Cas always bounced back pretty quickly. He holds Cas's hand half to keep an eye on him and half out to comfort him, squeezing Cas's palm every once in a while to remind Cas he's here. Cas isn't alone. Dean will take care of him.

When the store employee gives Dean a suspicious look and Cas a worried one, Dean blurts, "PTSD. He was a soldier. Y'know how that goes."

The suspicion fades away.

But Dean's own words echo in his head. PTSD. Cas has PTSD. Or something similar enough. Seventeen months of isolation.

Dean looks at Cas, throat tight. They cover more of the store, until the words Dean wants to say are about ready to burst out of him. He puts his hands on Cas's shoulders, willing Cas to be strong in his head, and then says, "I know this is hard. I know it is. But you can do this, Cas. It's okay. You're here with me, and I'm not leaving, and we'll go home after this."

Cas looks relieved. "Yes. Yes."

Dean guides him through the rest of the store, making sure to keep Cas close. Cas needs him to be. When they finally do get to the cashier, Cas gives her an oddly intense look. He looks like he's about to speak, to say something. Call for help? No, Cas was so relieved to hear they would be going home. He won't do that.

"Yes. One of those days," Cas says, sad.

Dean's tense until he gets Cas into the car. And then he pulls out. Cas stares out the car window like the world is a strange and foreign land. When they start approaching the outskirts – with names of highways and things like that – Dean asks him to close his eyes. And Cas does, without hesitation and without peeking.

Cas wants to stay. Surely that's what that means?

* * *

Cas is weirdly touchy and clingy for days after. He silently insists on sleeping with Dean close, and wakes up minutes after Dean leaves the bed in the morning, without fail. Cas usually sleeps right through Dean taking a shower and then making breakfast, but now Cas follows him to the kitchen, tired and hollow-eyed. He watches Dean make waffles with dark eyes, but offers Dean a quick smile when Dean asks how he is.

Dean hands him the plate of waffles, dripping in jam and whipped cream. "How about we go into the yard for a bit today? I know you said you had some landscaping to do."

Cas accepts the plate. "All right."

The backyard is now very recognizably a garden. Cas has created levels with brick and paving stones, and even though there's no grass yet, some plants have been put into soil. The random flat rock that was out here initially has been moved into the center, and still remains Cas's favorite spot to sit. They end up using the morning to clear out a portion of the yard and to dig a very shallow pond. (Dean got Cas several books on DIY landscaping, and slightly regrets it now, because like everything else Cas goes all out on something he considers work.)

Dean settles a hand on Cas's shoulder. "I'm going to make lunch. You going to be okay out here?"

Cas nods and gives Dean a slight smile.

Feeling a little relieved, Dean heads for the kitchen. Forty-five minutes later he's got two heavily loaded sandwiches.

He finds Cas sitting on the dirt, bloody hand in his lap. Dean freezes for a second, then approaches cautiously. Cas is digging a thumb into a cut, expression weirdly intent. Then he looks up, not at Dean, but at the horizon, expression blank.

"Cas?"

Cas starts and turns. "Hello, Dean. I, um, my hand slipped on the shovel."

"Is that why you were hurting yourself further?" Dean asks, keeping his tone mild.

Cas opens and closes his mouth. "It makes me feel present."

That chills Dean. "Well, I'd prefer other ways of feeling present. Follow me in? I'll take care of your hand."

Cas nods silently.

* * *

That night, Dean hears Cas talking in his sleep, saying, "My fault, my fault." He only quiets when Dean rubs his back.

* * *

Dean is going through a stack of newspapers, next to Cas. It's a job he's taken to leaving to Cas entirely, but Cas has been a little fuzzy-headed lately, so Dean is trying to subtly double-check his work. The crinkle of newspaper is the only sound that fills the room. Cas looks calmest when he reads, the most like himself. Other times he wavers between rejecting Dean's touch and begging for it, in that subtle, quiet way that Cas has. The trip outside has completely unsettled him, or lifted issues out into the open. Dean's not sure. Either way, he needs to deal with it, because he can see Cas's mind unraveling from here.

Cas isn't fine. And the only way Dean can see to fix it is to keep taking Cas outside of the bunker, exposing him to the outside world. The world that Dean took from him for so long. Dean has to make this right.

But that can't mean letting Cas go. It's not the same thing. The isolation and imprisonment together made Cas this way. If Dean can have Cas with him, out there, then they go in the Impala together and live life. Cas will recover because interaction with other people, with the world, is what he needs. And Dean feels like he can give that to Cas now, safely. He doesn't think Cas will run. Cas loves him. Cas consciously chose to give himself the chance to fall in love with Dean, and Cas did.

It's fucked up to only grant that now that Cas won't run, but Dean reasons that he didn't really understand until now just how much the isolation wore on Cas. As much as he loves that part of Cas, Dean takes Cas's strength for granted. And now that it's failing, Cas needs Dean's strength. The strength to trust Cas.

There's a hunt that Dean could take Cas on. Easy, not time sensitive, so Cas's hand would time to heal. Doesn't require much interaction, but it'll give Cas the chance to be up and about. Just a salt and burn.

Dean imagines Cas digging a grave with him, and has to laugh a little. Well, spreading the work would help. And Cas is really freaking toned from all the yard work, and he's damn good with a shovel. The backyard is shaping up into a beautiful garden with all swooping lines and varying height levels. Cas has some kind of grand plan for it. Dean can't wait to see it in spring and summer.

Yeah. Dean knows what he needs to do.

"Found a hunt, Cas. It's a salt and burn. Unfortunately. I hate doing those in winter." Dean looks up from the newspaper, watching Cas very carefully. "Do you want to come?"

Cas noticeably pales.

Dean nods. He needs to take the decision from Cas. "You're coming. My decision. Got it?"

Something in Cas eases at those words, the tenseness in his body fading. "When?"

"Tomorrow," Dean says. "Don't think about it, okay? It'll just be you and me."

And through the entire hunt, Dean reminds Cas that Cas is his. Sometimes with words like, "You're mine." But also with keeping Cas close, holding Cas's hand, offering encouragement when Cas loses some of that ever-present tenseness in public. Dean decides that when Cas is relaxing out in the world, it means that Cas isn't thinking about running, that he's letting himself accept being with Dean.

Cas is getting better. While they search for the grave, he even cracks a smile and says, "Kind of makes you wish they were in alphabetical order."

Dean loves him.

After they get back to the motel, Dean makes love to him. It's amazing as always – Cas is so responsive to Dean, to how Dean explores his body, and the firmness of Dean's touches. This is the first time they've had sex outside of the bunker, and it's significant to Dean. That Cas is letting Dean claim here, out in the world. Fill Cas up with his come. Cas says, "I'm yours." And that means everything. A little lingering fear vanishes.

Dean grabs a set of handcuffs out of their bag while he watches Cas clean himself up, wiping a wet cloth between his legs. "When you're ready," Dean tells Cas. "I'll put this on. Just while we sleep. It's got a long chain," Dean adds, showing the two foot delicate chain between the cuffs, "so it won't be uncomfortable."

Cas nods and throws back the covers on the bed, before slipping in. He offers Dean his right wrist. Dean closes the cuff on his wrist, then finds a bar on the headboard that's close enough to give Cas a good range of movement. The headboard isn't the sturdiest thing in the world, but then it doesn't really need to be. Dean thinks the cuff is more to let Cas escape the pressure of feeling like he has to escape that actually preventing it. And Dean would wake up if Cas actually applied enough force to break the headboard apart. He kisses Cas's wrist, rubbing the skin under the cuff.

"Do you like to see me cuffed?" Cas asks curiously.

Dean looks at him, startled. Then shrugs, embarrassed. "A little bit. Makes me feel more secure." He kisses Cas on the lips. "I love having you here with me, you know that, right?"

Cas gives Dean a soft look and nods.

Dean curls up behind him, the sound of the chain moving with Cas falling him into sleep.

He wakes up first. Cas hasn't moved much in his sleep, though of course he can't easily. Dean's already hard. He grabs the lube from the nightstand and presses two fingers into Cas, finding him still fairly slick and loose. He eases his cock in and begins to thrust, wondering when Cas will wake up. He changes the angle, trying to hit Cas's prostrate. Taking Cas while he's asleep is hot – that Cas will just open up for him and let Dean have him, because he's that comfortable with Dean in his bed – but he also likes to see Cas respond, to have Cas squirm and sigh and moan.

Cas tightens down on Dean's cock with he wakes. "Hmm," Cas says, tilting his hips.

Dean fucks him until he comes hard, filling Cas up and whispering in his ear, "You're mine."

Cas doesn't deny it.

After uncuffing Cas, Dean just watches him go about the business of waking up. Cas rubs his eyes and stumbles into the bathroom and moves to the shut the door behind him. For some reason, a sudden fluttering of panic rises in Dean's chest. He puts his hand out, preventing Cas from closing the door. Cas blinks at him, but doesn't say anything. Dean takes a step forward, clearly preventing Cas from separating them.

And after a moment of hesitation, Cas takes his cock in hand and urinates in front of Dean. Dean just looks. Looks at all of Cas, from the beautiful curve of his back, to the swell of his ass, to the sight of Cas holding his soft cock. This is his.

Cas squints at him. "Can I take a shit in private?" he asks, sounding a little irritated.

Dean flushes. "Of course, yeah. Sorry. I know I'm freaking out. I just never thought we'd be here, even six months ago." Maybe watching Cas in the bathroom is a little creepy, but it soothes a hidden worry in Dean.

And then they go home.

* * *

"Okay. You'll come. I trust you."

That is the beginning of the end.

* * *

After Dean realizes that he's going to have to do the hunt after dark, when it's dangerous, the question becomes whether to take Cas. For it to be actually safe to bring him along, Dean would have to arm him. And even then, Cas's never dealt with a ghost before, and since this one is a locked into a series of events, there's no reasoning with it. Or it's highly likely it will be dangerous. How dangerous, Dean doesn't know exactly.

Cas's life versus the certainty of Dean keeping him.

Dean can't take him. The thought fills him with terror. Terror he doesn't want to admit is there. Cas loves him. He won't leave Dean.

He stares at Cas, sitting on the bed, fully dressed. His shoulders are hunched in, like he feels small and is making himself look that way. He's not looking at Dean, either, instead staring at his hands. He knows what's next, but he offers nothing one way or the other. Nothing to sway Dean. He's leaving the decision up to Dean. He's been doing that so often lately, so different from the Cas in the beginning, who with polite distance made Dean work for every yes. _You broke me._ Dean falters for a second, then clears his throat. "Cas. I'm going to leave you in the motel room. I should only be gone two hours, max. Cas, look at me."

Cas meets Dean gaze, brilliant blue eyes nervous and afraid.

"Do you want me to cuff you to the sink?" Dean asks, trying to figure out what Cas needs from him.

Cas frowns, making himself even smaller. "I don't know."

"I'd prefer not to, in case something happens. This isn't the bunker." Cas's safety comes first. "But you _can't leave_ , Cas. Do you understand?"

Cas nods.

"I love you," Dean says slowly, willing Cas to understand and believe him. He kisses Cas lightly, watching how Cas's eyes go slightly wet. "I trust you."

Cas kisses Dean desperately. When he pushes Dean's hand between his legs, he's not even hard. Dean tries to pull back, but Cas won't let him. So Dean gets him there, as gently as he can, until Cas is gasping into his mouth. Cas blinks rapidly, blue eyes uncertain in the wake of it. Dean's heart aches. Cas still isn't okay. But Dean can bring him there. He holds onto Cas a moment longer.

"Stay for me," Dean says. This isn't just about Cas not escaping, it's about Cas choosing to stay. And Dean thinks that Cas will. And Cas will heal. _You broke me_. But Dean can put him back together. Cas just has to give Dean time.

Cas nods without speaking.

Dean pulls up Cas's pants and embraces him. "I'll be back soon," Dean promises.

The hunt is actually more dangerous than Dean expects, and that soothes some of his worry. As the ghost tries to behead him, Dean knows he's made the right decision. He barely escapes that particular strike, but then he gets his hands back on his salt-loaded shotgun, and fires. She dissipates. Rinse and repeat. Dean gets through the spell by a smattering of words at a time, having to defend himself constantly and not even curse (the words need to be said in order, without 'interruption'). But eventually Dean is able to finish the spell to release her from the road and let her move into the afterlife.

When the ghost's flickers out of this world, Dean checks his watch. It's been a little more than an hour.

He goes back to Baby, cursing some sore muscles, and breaks the speed limit on the way back to the motel. He gets to room 116, and grabs his key.

The door is unlocked.

Dean freezes, his vision going dim for a second. He draws his gun and pushes the door open. The bed has been rumpled, but otherwise the room is undisturbed. Dean is shaking, the gun nearly falling from his grip, when he checks the bathroom. Empty. He turns back to the bed, to the duffel that holds clothing for both of them. Cas's coat is gone. He wasn't taken. He left.

Dean falls to his knees. "No, no no no," he whispers.

He's been gone just under two hours. If it took time for Cas to decide to run, Dean might be able to catch him. Just like Cas's second escape attempt. He even still has the cuff on, Dean knows that, he can find him. Even if Cas somehow managed to disable the GPS, he can't disable the cuff's compass. Dean can catch him and take him back. Bring him back to the bunker, and put the boundaries back on the cuff, and Cas won't be able to leave. Cas won't ever be able to leave.

 _You broke me_.

Dean looks up, and up. He pictures Sam, what Sam would say. He'd look Dean in the eyes, earnest and heartfelt in a way Sam always was, and tell him to let Cas go. That Cas is an innocent human being. He'd never stop loving Dean, but he wouldn't let Dean get away with this, either. Dean imagines him up there, wondering what the hell Dean is doing. He thinks about Cas. He closes his eyes to this shitty motel room, and remembers.

 _I haven't heard another human voice in two weeks. I'm forced to live in the same ninety square feet. I can't walk without being reminded of how trapped I am. I don't even have sunlight._

 _You thought we were past this? You're my kidnapper! You've held me against my will! My brother – my brother probably thinks I'm dead in some freak's basement!_

Cas, I don't want you to suffer. _Then let me go!_

 _I want to go home._

 _Dean, I ran because you're holding me against my will. You're holding me prisoner. And no matter how much I like you, that fact isn't going away. Not until this magical ankle cuff goes._

(He remembers the pain Cas's eyes while he said that. He remembers watching Cas running his hands along his cuff, while Dean watches unseen. Watching Cas struggle to control his panic, his desperation, and his pain. He doesn't want to remember, and they are memories he's stuffed down deep inside with a wall of assurances that Cas is strong, Cas is okay, Cas can take it. Like Cas being strong is reason enough for Dean to be allowed to torture him.)

 _Bal, I'm drowning. Dean won't let me go and I'm drowning, I'm losing myself. Castiel is gone._

(But Dean can't keep torturing Cas like this. He won't. Cas has suffered so much because of Dean. He's been taken from everything, until Dean was his only choice left. If Cas won't stay … Dean has to let him go. He had Cas for a while, Cas's beautiful mind, heart, and body. He had Cas's smiles, his gentle touches, and his kind words.)

 _That's rich coming from you! You want me to choose to be with you – to be your lover, partner in crime, whatever – while I'm chained up. Do you think I'm ever going to be able to make that decision without it being coerced?_

(Cas deserves to be free.)

What is there that I can't offer you? _Freedom. My home. My apartment. My relationship with my family. My job at the FBI. Can you give me those things, Dean? Here? Because the way I see it, you can only give me those things by letting me go._

 _You kidnapped me, Dean, and I've failed twice to get away from you. I know what Stockholm Syndrome is, I've seen it in victims, I'm a fucking FBI agent. I'm trained. I know better than anyone exactly – exactly what's happening, and it still fucking happens._

(He once said, lying to himself,) Tell me, Cas. How do I make it right? _You won't._

If you never say yes to me again, I will accept that. _I hate you! I hate you!_

 _What if I can't love you, Dean? What do you do then? Keep me chained up here forever?_ I don't believe that, Cas. You're my soulmate. But even – even if that was true. I can't lose you. Not any of you, any part of you that you're willing to give.

 _You've broken me._ You're not broken, Cas. And I wouldn't want you to be.

(If Dean really, truly loves Cas, he has to let Cas go. Just like he let Sam make the decision to sacrifice his life. And this time, it's not for a sacrifice that Dean has to let Cas go, but so that Cas be happy. Free. Dean tried so hard to take away Sam's choices, and he did the exact same thing with Cas, except even worse because he never held Sam at gunpoint, with a chain on his ankle.)

Dean comes back to himself. The murky green walls seem confining, and the hum of the air conditioner kicking on sounds like something buzzing in Dean's head. The comforter is crappy, and the sheets are thin and rough, and Dean thought this was like a fucking gift. Like this would do something for Cas. But shit is all Dean has ever given his soulmate.

The gun is still in Dean's hand. The safety is off. Dean traces the edges and curves of the weapon, as familiar to him as his own body. It has a light trigger, easily pulled. None of that 'safer' shit. The slightest pull and the gun will go off, because Dean is a hunter and he needs a reliable, easy to fire weapon. So when he turns the gun around so the barrel is facing him, his thumb on the trigger, he knows it won't take much.

This is the only option left. "I'm sorry, Sammy." But surely Sam would have preferred this to the crimes Dean has committed against Cas.

The barrel is freezing cold when he puts it in his mouth, lying heavy on his tongue. He breathes through his nose, vision going blurry. He presses on the trigger, just barely.

The map on the wall wavers in front of him. Changed.

The gun falls out of Dean's mouth, then drops to the floor from Dean's limp hand. Rising to his feet feels like climbing a mountain, but Dean does it anyway. He staggers to the map. It's of the entire county, spread across a good portion of the wall. Dean likes to plan things this way, visually. Especially since his last capture by the FBI, he needs to know all the side streets, have a firm exit plan at all times. This map even notes major governmental buildings, including the local police station.

There are three words written on that police station. _Don't kill yourself._ The last word is smeared, like it got wet and then dried.

Cas went to the police station. Cas went home.

But Cas told him not to kill himself.

 _What if we continued to see each other, even after? The FBI wouldn't have to know._

Cas has rejected Dean. The situation Dean placed Cas in. But Cas does care for Dean, he does love Dean, and that means Dean has a chance. The smallest, narrowest of chances, that Cas will let Dean continue to know him, talk to him, maybe even one day make love to him. Cas said those words months ago, and Dean doesn't know how much truth and how much desperation were behind them, but the mere fact he would even suggest that Dean didn't have to hold him …

Can Dean earn Cas back?

Not to take him back, but to prove himself worthy of a part of Cas's life. Where Cas wants, when Cas, how Cas wants. Fear drove Dean to the heights of wanting to possess Cas, to him demanding that Cas tell him that Cas belongs to him. It drove him to not even let Cas piss by himself. To putting a cuff on Cas's ankle. To isolating him for seventeen months from every other living soul on this planet. That was wrong. Is wrong. Dean can't ever do that again, and it's entirely possible that Cas will never forgive him and there's nothing Dean can ever do to earn back Cas's love and trust.

But it's a goal. A mission. A hope. Dean looks back at the gun on the floor. His only choices are to seek redemption or to accept death.

Dean has to get out of here.

It's possible Cas already has the police on their way here, to capture him. Not even necessarily for the reason of catching Dean, but in order to prove himself to his own people.

Still shaking a little, he grabs the gun, turns the safety on, and stuffs it in his waistband. He takes out his phone and deletes all the contacts while taking huge, heaving breaths. It's got the GPS on it, and if Cas tells them about the cuff anytime soon, the FBI will be able to trace it. He smashes the phone after deleting everything and then puts it in the microwave and turns it on for ten minutes. He grabs everything he can out of the room, including the map on the wall with those three words.

Baby is waiting for him outside, a familiar comfort. With the bitter taste of metal still on his tongue, Dean climbs in and drives.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Sorry for delay. RL takes it's toll, time-wise. :)  
 **Warnings:** ... None? How did that happen? (Let me know if you want me to add anything here, I just can't think of anything offhand.)

Feedback is loved!

* * *

It takes Castiel's repeated insistence to the receptionist, but eventually a police detective comes along and brings Castiel to his desk. Castiel knows from experience that detectives work weird hours, and this one looks like he just got up out of bed, all tired eyes and slow movements. His suit is slightly rumpled and his blue tie is on backwards. He looks Castiel in the eye when he finally sits down behind his desk and visibly tries to shake himself awake. "I'm Detective Lorenson."

Castiel is doing his best not to breathe fast. Not to panic. Dean won't get him here. Castiel is safe. Dean won't try to attack a police station. He sits in the small, metal chair next to the desk, trying not to shake. Like every station Castiel ever worked in, the place just looks like a slightly grungier office building on the inside. The fluorescent lights are harsh and Castiel finds himself flinching whenever he looks up. "Hello."

"So," Lorenson says. He eyes Castiel a little more closely, clearly skeptical. "You're an FBI agent? Do you have ID?"

"No," Castiel says shortly, irritation flaring and overcoming his uncertainty. "I told the receptionist, I was kidnapped and escaped. Of course I don't have my fucking ID." Someone nearby slams a drawer shut, and Castiel jumps. He clears his throat and adds, "Look me up in the missing persons database. You'll find me."

Lorenson nods. "Spell your name for me?"

Castiel spells it.

There's a few minutes of silence while Lorenson waits for the database to respond. Then his eyes widen. "Holy shit." He looks at Castiel. "Holy shit." He runs his hand through his hair and then says, "Fuck, you're _that_ case. The FBI's been harassing every police station in a five hundred mile radius. I can't believe I didn't recognize you. Are you all right, physically? Do you need a medic?"

Castiel swallows. "No. I'm fine."

"And your kidnapper? Dean Winchester? Is he still here?"

"I don't know. He might be."

"Do you know where you escaped from?"

Words flee from him. If he tells, there's a decent chance the police will arrive before Dean figures out he has to run. He tries to speak and fails, staring at Lorenson. If Castiel doesn't give him the right information, that will eventually be found out. If Castiel wants to go home to his job, he has to do everything perfectly in this moment. If he chooses to try to save Dean, he sacrifices his own future. The FBI – no, his team – they already think he has Stockholm Syndrome, and he does. But how far will that excuse him?

"Mr. Novak, I understand this is hard," Lorenson says gently. "It's been a long time. But we need to know this so you'll be safe."

Throat tight, Castiel manages to say, "I ran from the Holloway Motel on Fifth Street."

Lorenson picks up the phone and calls dispatch. Castiel stares at his hands while he listens to the sounds of the police force mobilizing to catch Dean. Lorenson even calls the police chief at home. How long and how hard was the BAU looking for him? You're that case. Castiel leans his elbow on Lorenson's desk and covers his eyes, his vision blurring. He doesn't quite feel like he made a mistake running from Dean, but the relief he expected isn't there. Instead there's more tension, a different kind of anxiety.

"Castiel."

Castiel wipes his eyes and looks up.

Lorenson watches him for a second. "I'm going to call your boss now. All right?"

Castiel hesitates. "I have his direct number. Otherwise they'll put you through the switchboard."

Lorenson hands him a pencil and a piece of paper, and Castiel writes the number with a shaky hand. Lorenson says quietly, "Thank you." Then he dials. "Agent Hotchner? This is Detective Lorenson from the Tulsa, Oklahoma police department. I got your number from Castiel Novak. He walked into the station half an hour ago." Lorenson pauses and glances at Castiel. "Yeah, he's fine. Physically. Um, we've got officers looking for Winchester right now, starting with the motel Mr. Novak ran from."

Another brief pause.

"Yes, completely sure," Lorenson says.

Castiel watches, puzzled, as shock flickers across Lorenson's face. Then he gives Castiel a hard look.

"Uh … yes, sir. I understand." Lorenson taps a pen on his keyboard while he listens. "Got it. I'll let him know. Do you want to talk to him?"

Is Lorenson asking if Hotchner wants to talk to Castiel?

"Mr. Novak, would you like to speak to Agent Hotchner?" Lorenson asks.

The last time they spoke, Castiel refused to give Dean up. _I want to go home,_ Castiel said to him, _but you can't hurt Dean._ Castiel doesn't even know what he would say now. Apologize? Freak out? Castiel finally shakes his head.

"Um, he'll talk to you later," Lorenson says awkwardly. There's a very long silence as Lorenson listens to whatever Hotchner is saying, and then, "I will. We'll see you then." Lorenson hangs up. "So, your boss and your team are on a case and they won't be here until tomorrow. But they're calling your brother. You're staying in the station until they arrive, for your own safety."

Castiel nods. "Dean won't come here. Not with so many bystanders around."

"First time I've been called a bystander," Lorenson says wryly.

"That's how Dean sees it," Castiel says with a small shrug. All these cops here are 'civilians' in Dean's eyes. Not that Castiel is a case to Dean. It's far more complicated than that.

"Dean, huh?" Lorenson shakes his head, dismissing it. "We've got a room for off-duty officers and detectives to sleep. I'm going to put you there and a couple of officers on the door, just in case. Winchester's a real whack job, but he's not stupid."

He's not wrong about that, Castiel muses. He follows Lorenson down a confusing mish-mash of corridors, so different from the bunker. The room is off of the locker area, and has a few cots. The door swings shut behind them, and Castiel has an odd moment when he thinks, _Home was more comfortable._ Except for the cuff on his leg, still cold against his skin. Castiel sits on the nearest cot, wondering what will happen next. What they will say. What he will answer. How Balthazar will react. It's a terrifying amount of uncertainties. When he shakes out of it, he sees Lorenson giving him a concerned look.

"What?" Castiel snaps.

"Honestly, you seem pretty traumatized to me, but if I were in your shoes, I would want to know. Your boss told me that if you tried to leave, I should arrest you and hold you as long as I legally could."

Castiel stares at him, shocked silent.

"Do you know why he told me to do that? Your own boss?"

So he can't run back to Dean. "Yes. Yes, I know why." But it grates, as much as the cuff that still lies on his ankle does. To be held against his will for his own good. Dean partially used that excuse. And he knows, he _knows_ logically that Hotchner's order makes sense, and that he's not doing it for the same reason that Dean did, that Dean told Castiel and himself that lie, that it was for Castiel's own good, when really it was all about Dean. And, just like he had done so many times with Dean, Castiel says, "I understand." He tries to keep his expression calm, knows he's failing. "I won't run."

Lorenson won't quite meet Castiel's eyes. "All right. Good. You stay here and rest, okay? I'm going to get a few officers to stand watch."

Castiel nods silently, and is left alone. He sits cross-legged on the cot and tries to meditate, but when he closes his eyes, he hears the sounds of officers in the locker room talking. There's nothing weird about it, they probably don't even know he's here, but it keeps him from relaxing. The bunker was probably as large as this police station, but it was always quiet. Even Aditi didn't raise the noise level all that much, and unless Castiel was deliberately making noise – music, or television – it was completely silent. Much like the first few times he went outside after Dean expanded the cuff's boundaries, the 'new' stimulation puts him on edge.

And yet, it's a familiar sound, the workings of a police station. He did this for years. He heard this for more than a decade.

He counts his breaths. He puts the future of his mind with the will he once applied to not thinking about Dean and escape.

An hour later, Lorenson comes back with a sandwich, a soda and a bag of chips. He tells Castiel they didn't find him at the motel, but they're still looking. Castiel barely gets down the chips and skips the soda entirely.

Did Dean run? Did he listen to Castiel's message not to kill himself?

If Dean had committed suicide, he probably would have done it then and there. Lorenson hasn't been by to tell him anything more, and considering Lorenson told him that Hotchner wanted him arrested, Castiel thinks he would have told Castiel if Dean was dead. Surely that means that Dean got away?

He imagines Dean dead, his brains blown out.

"Dammit," Castiel whispers to himself. He finds himself wrapping his arms around his legs, chin on his knees. The cot creaks.

There's a knock at the door. "Hey, it's Officer Michaels," comes a woman's voice. "Can I come in?"

Castiel clears his throat. Michaels, like Michael. His older brother. "Yes."

A uniformed police officer steps in, presumably one of the guards at the door. She's short, but with a stout body, and her bright red hair is pulled back severely. Her hair reminds him a little of Anna, but her stance and voice are completely different. "Hey. Heard you freakin' out a little in here. Want some company?"

"Yes, thank you."

She leans against the wall and begins talking. First about a case some detectives are working, along with uniformed officers who know the area – like her. A murder, and one of the really hard kinds to solve because even though the motive is easy, the who is not. Someone walked home late at night and got violently mugged, and then died in the hospital without ever waking. It could be any low-level thug walking the streets that committed the crime. She goes over the little peculiarities of the case, like the red gloves they found in a dumpster a block away, bloody. The very old pistol used. It takes about an hour of mutual musing back and forth before Castiel is able to offer some profiles that might assist her in the neighborhood screening. It might help, and Castiel feels calmer.

After that, they discuss the detective exam. Castiel gives her some pointers, but it's been more than ten years since he took it.

Eventually, she asks about Dean. "You seem awful calm, and y'know, haven't asked once if they've caught him yet. Don't you hate the fucker?" she asks.

Castiel hesitates, then shakes his head. "Profilers are taught to understand criminals. We're also taught to be objective, because otherwise there's the tendency to assign things to the profile that aren't there based on our experiences and prejudices. But as much as we strive for that, often with understanding comes either sympathy –" or love, "or deep hatred."

"You feel sympathy for him?"

"I know him as only one person other person in his entire life ever has." Castiel gives her a sad smile. "Dean is a lot of things, but he's not evil."

"Even if he's not evil, he fucked you over good," she points out. "You've been gone, what, a year?"

Castiel shrugs, admitting the point.

She chatters on for a while about things besides his kidnapping. In a weird way, it reminds him of how Dean used to do the same thing – just keeping talking to fill the silence and be a distraction. Dean would talk about Sam, about hunting, about car maintenance. But there was always something tainted about Dean caring for him like that. The element of force colored everything, until Castiel was blind to it. But watching this woman, this police officer, give it to him when it offers her nothing, is completely different. It feels different.

He's thankful, and there's no guilt behind it.

The other officer knocks on the door and then peeks in. "Michaels. Lorenson says his brother is here."

"My brother?" Castiel demands. "He's here?"

Michaels looks at him. "You want to see him?"

Castiel nods immediately. "Yes."

"I'll be back. You stay here," she orders her fellow officer.

Castiel paces for the next five minutes, his mind a blank buzz. He freezes in the middle of the room when he hears Balthazar's voice in the hallway.

Then the door bangs open, and his brother is there.

Balthazar's blond hair is messed up and oily, like it's been too long since he took a shower. His clothes are askew, and his eyes are bloodshot. He stares at Castiel with first a look of desperate hope, then extreme relief. The feet between them just seem to vanish, and then Castiel is in Balthazar's arms, and Castiel's clinging to him. His brother is warm and solid and smells like smoke. He presses his head into his brother's shoulder, thinking, _I have to lecture him about smoking statistics again._

"Cassie, Cassie," Balthazar says, and his body begins to shake as he cries. "Oh my God, you're safe."

Castiel begins to weep. Here. Here it is, the relief. In Balthazar's arms, he feels relieved at last.

"Cassie, it's okay, you're okay," Balthazar says, rubbing his hands on Castiel's back.

And it's good. Castiel's mind is a jumble of joy and happiness. But it sours as he thinks about how long Balthazar has waited for this. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry –" he repeats into Balthazar's shoulder. He gave escaping. Balthazar doesn't know that yet, but Castiel gave up. Castiel gave Dean that cell phone instead of calling his brother. "I'm sorry." He didn't write Balthazar because he feared his brother's response too much, because he felt too much guilt for how easily he had let himself get used to being in Dean's life. To giving up his own. His apologies come out as desperate pants. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He didn't run when Dean took him to the grocery store. He didn't call out for help to the police car. He didn't run, even when unchained. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry –"

Balthazar withdraws enough to look Castiel in the face, grips Castiel's head, and says, "Cassie, don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, you're home now."

Castiel shakes his head, feeling the tears slip down his cheeks. "But I did, I did, I'm sorry."

There's fear in his brother's eyes, but Castiel can't bring himself to explain. "It's okay, Cassie."

But Castiel can't calm himself down. He's hyperventilating now in between sobs, and Balthazar is half holding him upright. The guilt he has ignored for so long is rising up, each memory of giving into Dean, of surrendering. Balthazar would be so ashamed if he knew everything, and Castiel knows he's going to have to tell the truth sooner or later. Tell the truth of his weakness and his desperate attempt to save himself by taking what Dean offered. Every thought pounds on him like a physical blow, and he can't slow his breathing, and his body has gone cold and shaky.

He collapses.

"Cassie! Oh, fuck," Balthazar mutters, then sets Castiel down on the cot. "Help! I need help!"

A uniformed officer and Officer Michaels rush in, asking questions that are a blur of sound. Castiel can't even hear Balthazar's replies.

A haze of time later, Balthazar is cupping Castiel's face and forcing Castiel to meet his eyes. He says, very slowly and clearly, "I don't care what happened. I love you, Cassie. I would never blame for you for anything. Do you hear me? I love you. There's no reason to be sorry."

The words aren't magic. Balthazar repeats them, one arm around Castiel's shoulders and the other holding his hand. A paper bag is shoved in his hands and he breathes into it, finally able to slow down.

"Good, that's good, Cassie. You're okay," Balthazar whispers. "You're okay. Do you want to lay down?"

Castiel is exhausted. He nods.

Balthazar helps him lay down and then sits on the floor next to him. "If you can sleep, go ahead and sleep. I'll be here."

Castiel searches his brother's blue eyes. They're lighter than his own, almost icy. "I gave up, Bal."

Balthazar just looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"I gave up on trying to escape," Castiel admits, guilt wrenching the words out of him. Balthazar needs to know. "I gave in. I stopped trying to get back to you."

Balthazar searches his face. "That's what you were apologizing for?"

Castiel nods.

"Cassie, I don't give a fuck," Balthazar says in his usual blunt way. "You did what you had to survive. I don't care if you danced naked on a weekly basis, if it helped you, then I am all for it."

That's Balthazar. Not the dream one, not the feared one, but his real brother. Castiel finds himself smiling, painfully. "I did once," Castiel admits.

Balthazar laughs through his crying. "Good for you, Cassie."

"I'm so glad you're here, Bal." Tears slide down Castiel's face, dripping off his nose, down his cheek.

"Me, too," Balthazar says, and he strokes the side of Castiel's face. "I've missed you so much. And I've got over sixty stories waiting to be heard, I'll have you know. You have to make up for all those weekend calls I missed. Over sixty, Cassie. I will bore you to even more tears."

Castiel laughs wetly. "I think I'll have the time."

Balthazar grasps his hand tightly. "Tell me what you need, Cassie."

"Just you. Here," Castiel says. "Please?"

"Wild animals couldn't drag me off of you," Balthazar promises.

Somewhere in between Balthazar telling the story about the kid who peed onto his chair rather than go to the bathroom and the story about the girl who wrote love letters to all the boys in class, Castiel falls asleep.

* * *

Aaron Hotchner is in the chief of police's office. The case is almost closed – all the threads are coming together. They've caught the unsub, a barely eighteen year old man with a deep psychosis that led him to kill young girls. The evidence is strong, and the suspect is communicative and Reid has managed to form a bond with him, so they're going to spend the night talking to him and trying to get him to confess and tell them where all the bodies are.

"I'll have Dr. Reid finish with him," Hotchner tells the police chief. As the leader of the BAU, he's been coordinating this entire case. "You can stay, but we've got it from here. I know you and your men have been up for over twenty-four hours, so if you want to pass it over to us for the night, we can take it."

The police chief looks at him tiredly. "That would be appreciated, thank you. I'm going to inform the squad room, and ask just a few to stay to assist you. Thanks again, Agent Hotchner."

They shake hands, and the chief leaves.

Hotchner rubs his eyes. He's tired, too, but nowhere near what the local police force has been through. They've been running themselves ragged trying to catch the unsub before he killed again. Even though the unsub has been caught, Hotchner's shoulders are tense and high, that almost-pain from physical stress. So he's not exactly happy when his phone rings.

"Hotchner," he says shortly into his cell.

A strange voice answers. _"Agent Hotchner? This is Detective Lorenson from the Tulsa, Oklahoma police department. I got your number from Castiel Novak. He walked into the station half an hour ago."_

Adrenaline surges, along with hope. Castiel got away? He stands up, hardly able to believe what he's hearing. "Is he all right?"

 _"Yeah, he's fine. Physically. Um, we've got officers looking for Winchester right now, starting with the motel Mr. Novak ran from."_

"And you're sure it's Castiel?"

 _"Yes, completely sure."_

Hotchner thinks fast. If Castiel walked in alone, that means he escaped Winchester or Winchester let him go. Either way, it's pretty clear that Castiel has developed Stockholm's Syndrome, which means that even if Castiel escaped on his own, there's a possibility that Castiel will regret his decision and attempt to return to Dean. "I want you to listen to me carefully, Detective. For Castiel's own safety, if he tries to leave, I want you to arrest him and hold him as long as legally possible. And don't mention this to him. Do you understand?"

 _"Uh … yes, sir. I understand."_ Probably not, judging from the detective's voice.

"It's for his own safety," Hotchner repeats. "Please take care of him and keep him guarded at all times. I won't be able to arrive there until tomorrow. And I will be calling your superior about the manhunt."

 _"Got it. I'll let him know. Do you want to talk to him?"_

"Yes, if he's willing."

The detective's voice is faintly muffled when he speaks to Castiel. _"Mr. Novak, would you like to speak to Agent Hotchner?"_

There's a long silence.

 _"Um, he'll talk to you later,"_ Lorenson says awkwardly.

"It's all right, I understand," Hotchner tells him. "Castiel is under a great deal of psychological stress. That means you need to be gentle with him. Tell him the team will be coming to see him tomorrow. We're on a case and we can't quite leave yet. After this, I will also be calling his brother, who should arrive at your station before we do. I will give your superior his details." Hotchner pauses. "Take care of him for me, Detective Lorenson. He's my friend."

 _"I will. We'll see you then."_ Lorenson hangs up.

Hotchner just stands there and thinks for a long moment. He knows that this is the beginning of a very long journey, mostly for Castiel, but also for all his colleagues and friends. The psychological stress of captivity was obvious even from the brief communication with Castiel at six months, and JJ's interrogation of Winchester revealed that Castiel has self-harmed. And that's not even including the bond Castiel has apparently formed with his captor. None of this is going to be easy, for any of them. Castiel will have to heal and recover mentally from the traumas inflicted on him – and quite likely his own guilt, because he will feel as a profiler that he shouldn't have been susceptible – and the rest of them will have to stumble through supporting him.

But Castiel is coming home. Hotchner allows himself a moment to let that sink in, relief in his bones.

Then he calls the Tulsa, Oklahoma chief of police, who is already in his office despite the odd hour. The chief has begun a statewide manhunt, and they've followed all the precautions that the BAU initially outlined in Winchester's profile. He sounds capable, which is good. Hotchner doesn't know if they'll catch Winchester – Winchester is unusually good at evading police custody – but every possible measure is being taken to ensure success, and that's all anyone can ask.

The rest of the team is still busy with the case, and since the interrogation is ongoing, Hotchner decides not to interrupt them yet. He returns to the chief's office and dials.

" _Hello?_ " Balthazar's now-familiar voice is sleepy.

"Balthazar, this is Agent Hotchner."

 _"What is it?_ " Balthazar demands, suddenly awake. " _What happened?"_

Hotchner has waited eighteen months to say his next words. "I have good news. Castiel walked into a police station in Oklahoma about an hour ago. He's all right, Balthazar, and is in protective custody."

 _"Oh. Oh fuck."_ Balthazar begins to weep over the phone. _"H-He's okay?"_

"Yes. I haven't spoken to him yet, but I've been assured he's all right."

 _"Oh God,"_ Balthazar says, voice thick. There's a clattering like he's fumbling with the phone. _"Where in Oklahoma? I'm getting dressed. I'll take the first flight. What's his number? Can I call him? Tell me!"_

Hotchner waits a second to be sure Balthazar is done babbling. "Tulsa, Oklahoma. I've already informed the local police you're on your way." Hotchner thinks about the fact Castiel didn't want to talk to him. "I think it may be wiser to wait to see Castiel in person to talk to him."

There's a louder clatter. _"Fuck. Sorry. Why?"_

"For his emotional state," Hotchner says finally. "It's a gut feeling, Balthazar. I can give you a direct line."

 _"Yeah. Yeah. Um, I'll be on the plane, so I won't be able to call anyway."_ Several audible, deep breaths. _"Is he really okay, Agent?"_

"Physically, he's fine. Emotionally, I can't answer that. But I know he will need you."

 _"Looking up flights now,"_ Balthazar says, voice shaking a little.

Hotchner pauses. "He's safe. Remember that. Call me if you need anything, the team won't be there until tomorrow morning."

 _"Okay."_ Another deep breath. _"Clothes. A bag. Plane ticket. Bye."_ And Balthazar hangs up.

Hotchner goes to search for Rossi and finds him in the squad room, which since the last time Hotchner was here has emptied out as those who've been on call for days finally go home. Rossi is slumped over a desk, a steaming hot cup of coffee next to his hand. His beard looks even rougher than usual. Hotchner taps his shoulder, and Rossi starts.

"Another break in the case?" Rossi asks, voice rough.

"Not this one," Hotchner replies. "Castiel walked into a police station in Oklahoma an hour ago. He's physically unhurt, and the local police are starting a manhunt for Winchester."

Rossi stares at him for several long seconds, the surprise evident on his face. He swallows once. "That's the last thing I expected to hear. He got away unharmed?"

"Physically, he's fine. Otherwise I don't know the details. I spoke with the detective who gave him a short debrief and Castiel didn't want to speak to me." Of course, Hotchner will have to get more detailed answers from Castiel eventually, when Castiel seems more mentally ready. It doesn't seem immediately relevant yet, Castiel won't know the particular way Winchester has run off, but Castiel likely has information that could lead them to Winchester's home base. Hotchner doesn't know yet if they traveled far to get to Oklahoma, or if their profile was completely off and Kansas wasn't Winchester's base. And finding Winchester is key to Castiel's safety.

Rossi looks around. "Does the rest of the team know?"

"Not yet. I'm on my way to let them know."

Rossi begins to smile. "It'll be good to give good news for once."

Hotchner's smile is slight, but sincere. "Yes, it will."

Morgan and JJ are watching Reid's interrogation, ready to provide backup either as another interviewer or to help Reid catch every tell. Morgan has one hand to his chin, focusing on the suspect with his usual intensity, while JJ watches both Reid and the suspect. Hotchner waits just outside the room for nearly thirty minutes, until Reid gets out the beginnings of a confession. The rest will be a walk downhill, so Hotchner waves Morgan and JJ outside. Rossi is next to him, grinning.

Morgan catches the different air first, looking curious. "Hotch? Something happen?"

"Castiel walked into a police station an hour ago."

JJ's eyes widen. "What? Is he okay?"

Hotchner nods. "Looks that way. He declined to speak to me, but all considering that's not very surprising. The local police force in Tulsa and surrounding cities is beginning a search for Winchester. Castiel is being held in the police station until we arrive, for his own safety."

Morgan rubs his face, relief in every line. "We're coming for him, aren't we?"

"Tomorrow morning," Hotchner says. "We need to finish this case."

Both JJ and Morgan frown, but they don't object. They know as well as anyone that wrapping this case up correctly is important.

"Do you think he would talk to any of us?" Morgan asks.

"I don't know," Hotchner replies. "Balthazar should get to him before we do, and that's probably for the best. I'm going to call him after this and get him on his way." Hotchner takes a deep breath. "We have a lot of planning to do, Morgan. JJ. We have Castiel home. Now we need to keep him."

* * *

Eighteen months.

Castiel has been gone longer than he served with the BAU. But his kidnapping has haunted the entire team ever since that Monday morning when Morgan walked into his empty apartment. Winchester claimed that he knew about Castiel before Castiel joined the BAU, but Morgan can't shake the feeling that Dean's words are another psychosis, and it was being part of the BAU that led Winchester to take Castiel in the first place. Logically, they're not responsible for that, it's a risk of the job, but Morgan feels responsible.

Would they have caught Winchester if Morgan had followed through and contacted Castiel that Friday night?

Everyone else on the plane looks asleep. Morgan caught a few hours at the hotel before they left and about an hour on the plane, and that's been enough to keep him going. He's already planning out in his head how they should transfer Castiel and how to keep him safe while the hunt for Winchester goes on. Winchester has still not been found. As long as he remains free, Castiel will likely have to be hiding. Morgan has gone through the tapes of JJ interrogating Winchester over and over, and Winchester is too obsessed with Castiel to simply let him go.

Last time Hotchner called Tulsa, they said Castiel was sleeping in a cot with Balthazar by his side, passed out in a chair.

It feels like a heavy weight has lifted. Unfortunately, it's a familiar one – Morgan remembers his rage when Prentiss was 'killed' and then returned – and he knows it won't last. This isn't going to be easy.

There exists the possibility that Castiel will lie to them. Not just about the details of his captivity, but about his emotional connection to Winchester, or any crimes he may have witnessed or even participated in. Morgan doesn't think that's likely – even under extreme psychological stress, he doesn't think Castiel would hurt anyone – but it's possible he witnessed crimes he won't want to discuss. Especially right now, with all the wounds of his imprisonment so fresh.

They'll have to step carefully in debriefing Castiel. But at the same time, they have a duty to Winchester's victims – including Castiel – to find out anything that could help them capture Winchester.

Morgan hopes Castiel still understands that.

* * *

Twenty minutes before the plane is due to land, Hotchner wakes everyone up. Morgan watches as Hotchner eyes them all for a long moment before speaking. "We'll need to be careful in how we approach this, for Castiel's sake."

JJ nods, pushing back her blond hair. "I think we should all see him, but only one or two of us should debrief him, and it should be done in a place Castiel will feel safe."

Hotchner nods. "We have a duty to catch Winchester, but we have a duty to Castiel as well."

"I'd like to debrief him," Morgan says. "We spent a fair amount of time together outside of work."

Reid agrees. "Me, too."

"All right," Hotchner says. "Morgan and Reid will talk to Castiel. The rest of us will work on tracking Winchester using any information we can get from Castiel."

Reid looks out the window. "Do you think Castiel will want to come back to the BAU?"

Rossi answers. "I think it's too early to think anything. We'll have to take each day as it comes."

No one disagrees, and it's silent until the plane lands.

Detective Lorenson is at home by the time the team arrives, and they're greeted by the lieutenant in charge of Dean Winchester's manhunt. Using Castiel's information, they were able to confirm that Winchester briefly returned to the motel, and then was seen on several security cameras heading out of the city. They can't confirm Dean slipped through their road blocks, but it looks likely. That, or Winchester has bunkered down and found a good place to hide. For safety's sake, the lieutenant agrees to keep up the road checks for another five days.

Castiel is safe, they're told, with his brother, whose identity they verified before letting him in.

Morgan and the others follow a uniformed officer to the back room that police often use to sleep. The door opens a crack, and he sees Castiel lying down on a cot, eyes closed. He's dressed in dark jeans and boots, with a band t-shirt (totally uncharacteristic) under a leather jacket. His hair is slightly longer, just enough to curl a bit at the ends. Castiel is curled up on his side, making a pillow out of his arm. He looks subtly different to Morgan, but Morgan can't pinpoint why. He's seen Castiel sleeping before, usually laid back in the plane. Balthazar is by his side, awake with red-rimmed eyes. He's leaning back in the chair, posture surprisingly relaxed for the stress on his face.

Balthazar starts when he sees the door open fully, then gives Morgan a small smile. It's actually something odd for Morgan to even see – he's never seen Balthazar smile since Castiel was taken, and he never met Castiel's brother before that. Of course he must have smiled at some point, but seeing the BAU members always made Balthazar rough and depressed, like all they did was remind him that Castiel was missing.

There's a tension that Morgan had begun to simply associate as part of Balthazar's personality that is now gone.

Balthazar places one hand on Castiel's shoulder. His voice is incredibly gentle. "Hey, Cassie. Your friends are here."

Castiel blinks his eyes open several times, and shifts. Moves. Morgan suddenly realizes he expected, for so long, to never see Castiel move again, only finding his dead body, and it takes his breath away for a moment. He feels JJ crowd at his shoulder, along with Reid. Rossi and Hotchner are hanging back, watching.

Castiel looks around the room, then finally glances at the door. Shock breaks across Castiel's face first when he meets Morgan's eyes. Then Castiel smiles, pain mixed with gladness.

Morgan walks forward, intending to kneel by the cot, but Castiel is on his feet within seconds, and embracing his friend seems like the most natural thing in the world. Castiel is solid. Present. He doesn't seem thin or malnourished. Everything stops for a few seconds, and then Castiel takes the smallest step back, shivering a little. Morgan watches as a complex storm of emotions cross Castiel's face. A combination of relief, worry, and something he can't identify. Morgan just stares at him, struck silent, for several long seconds.

JJ is crying when Morgan finally steps out of the way, and she pulls Castiel into her arms, saying, "I'm so glad you're home."

Castiel presses his face into her shoulder, silently nodding.

Reid smiles painfully and says only, "E7 to E5."

Castiel laughs, letting JJ go. "Starting over?"

"You were going to lose in seven moves," Reid replies. "I thought I would be merciful."

"You asshole," Castiel says, but he's smiling. Reid steps forward and gives him a hug. They hold onto each other, and Reid whispers something Castiel's ear, causing Castiel to simply nod. But some tension in Castiel eases, whatever those words were, and when Reid steps away Castiel looks a little calmer.

Hotchner, one of the most reserved people Morgan has ever met, steps forward with his hand out. But Castiel takes his hand and then pushes it further, giving him a short embrace that lasts maybe a second, which Hotchner returns. Then Castiel says very quietly, "Thank you for looking for me."

"We never gave up," Hotchner says solemnly. He squeezes Castiel's hand tight, a gentle smile on his face.

Rossi gives Castiel a bear hug. He's often served as the father-figure of the team, and it shows.

After that, they settle all over the room. Morgan knows that if they're all sitting, it will be less overwhelming for Castiel to deal with. It's weird to think of Castiel as a traumatized victim, but that's exactly what he is right now – yes, at the moment he seems stable enough, but Balthazar did call Hotchner the night before, freaking out about how Castiel had a panic attack. And the reason is striking – because Castiel gave up on escaping, and couldn't stop apologizing for that. Like that survival instinct to accept and adapt to your circumstances was his fault. Hotchner gave Balthazar the right answer: _Balthazar, you didn't do anything wrong. Castiel probably finally felt safe and let go. Stay with him, that's what he needs._

Morgan and Reid sit closest to Castiel, besides his brother, who slings an arm over Castiel's shoulders. Morgan would probably have recommended against any kind of restraining hold, but Castiel relaxes into his brother's touch. He stops fidgeting. Morgan can't decide if that's telling or not.

"I need to ask you a question," Morgan begins. "It might be uncomfortable to think about, but we need to know in order to keep you safe."

Castiel stares at him, not understanding.

"Do you think Dean will come after you again? Immediately or long term?"

Pure surprise flashes across Castiel's face, like that hadn't even occurred to him. Fear and uncertainty flash across his face, easy to read in a way Castiel never used to be. But when he answers, his voice is steady. "I don't know. It's possible."

Morgan nods his understanding. "All right." He glances at Hotchner.

Hotchner rises to his feet. "We'll work on that, then," he says. "Castiel, let us know if you need anything."

JJ and Rossi leave with Hotchner, with JJ resting a hand on Castiel's shoulder before she goes.

Castiel watches them go with a frown on his face. Worried. But it suddenly hits Morgan that Castiel might not be worried for himself – he might be worried for Dean. _I want to go home, but you can't hurt Dean._ Castiel said those words only six months into his captivity. It's been a year since then. Castiel did escape, but it's possible the reason he did is because he managed to do it without putting Dean in danger.

Castiel is picking at the blanket from the cot. Balthazar stays with him, doing his best to remain calm. Morgan decides not to ask him to leave; Castiel seems to appreciate Balthazar's presence.

The person Morgan called friend is different. Changed. Shyer, even quieter, with a miasma of fear.

Morgan takes a moment to calm himself, and then sets himself in the mindset he uses with victims of violent crime. "Do you think you answer a few questions about your time with Dean?" Morgan asks cautiously.

Castiel noticeably pales, but he nods. "Yes. I mean I – it will be hard." Castiel swallows and looks away. "But I know that I need to."

"Right now?" Balthazar interrupts. "Are you fucking crazy? Can't that wait?"

Castiel answers before Morgan can. "They want to find Dean, Bal. It's standard to ask a … a victim questions like that, after the victim is safe."

His eyes flick up to meet Morgan's. He still remembers what the standard protocol is, and he knows that Morgan is going to follow it. Having that knowledge in a victim's eyes is a weird déjà vu feeling.

Reid speaks up, voice quiet. "I think I understand what you're going through, Castiel. At least a little bit." Reid gives him a brief smile. "You remember that I was kidnapped for two days? I know it was before your time, but you read all our case files. It was really strange to be debriefed by my own team, as a victim of crime instead of the person searching for the perpetrator."

Castiel smiles, very faintly. "Yes. I suppose you would." He looks away, visibly collecting himself. "Ask what you need to ask. I'll do my best to answer."

"Do you know anything about where you were being held?" Morgan asks.

Castiel bites his lip. "The bunker is in Kansas, but I don't know where."

"The bunker? You weren't held in a house?" Reid asks.

"No. It was a bunker built in the fifties, I think. Really large, built for fifty or more people." Castiel's expression goes strangely soft. "Dean said that his grandfather was there, decades ago. And Sam lived there for a year. But he told me that it's not on any county records, any state records. Built in secret." His focus becomes internal. "He told me that the first day, when I woke up chained to the floor. He said that if I managed to get close enough to kill him, no one would ever find me and I would starve to death."

Balthazar is biting his hand hard, grief on his face.

Castiel blinks rapidly, then looks at Balthazar. "He didn't mean it that way, Bal."

"Cassie …"

"He told me later he set it up so if he died, I'd be set free. He never wanted to hurt me."

 _He never wanted to hurt me,_ not _he never hurt me._ Profilers know better than most how much of what a person says reveals things they don't intend. The hidden insecurities, the hidden truths. There is truth in that phrasing, at least in Castiel's mind. He believes Dean didn't mean him harm. But perhaps he also recognizes that harm was done nonetheless.

Castiel looks at Morgan. "Dean left for supplies once every week or two. He was always gone all day. The bunker isn't near anything, just has a small road, like a private road or a county road, it doesn't even have two lanes most of the way."

"Can you tell me anything else about the size? From the outside?"

Castiel starts listing measurements. They're rough, and a lot of it is guesswork. From the description, Morgan is able to understand that by the end of his captivity, Castiel had access to roughly half of the bunker. Castiel doesn't explain how Dean kept him captive, or how the cuff on his ankle – that they saw in the photos – worked. For that matter, it might still be on Castiel.

So Morgan winds back to the end. He doesn't want to directly ask Castiel; the small flinches and hesitations tell Morgan he's doubting himself and what he's saying. And thinking through all his words, looking for … what? Something to help them, or something that would help Dean? "How did you escape?"

"I walked away." Castiel shakes his head, though at what Morgan can't tell. "Dean left me alone in the motel for several hours while he went on a hunt. To, uh, to bless a road."

"Have you been outside before?" Morgan asks.

Castiel nods shortly, beginning to tremble a little. Balthazar squeezes him tighter. "Yes. Twice. Uh, in the past month. He took me to a grocery store, the first time. Then to a hunt, the second time. To do a salt – for a grave desecration," Castiel corrects himself.

He was about to use Winchester's terminology. Habit to conform to Winchester's verbiage, or did Winchester convince Castiel his psychosis was real?

"Holy shit," Balthazar whispers. "He took you out? Why didn't you run?"

Castiel curls on himself and puts his hands over his face, and Morgan begins to wonder if they shouldn't have had Balthazar leave. He's too emotional. Stress is evident in every line of Castiel's body, like he's torn between defending himself and admitting guilt.

Before Morgan can interrupt, Balthazar clears his throat, eyes softening as he notices Castiel's reaction. "It's okay, Cassie. I meant that."

Castiel looks up at Morgan, searching Morgan's eyes.

"It's all right, Castiel. I don't blame you." Morgan pauses, thinking of the many long-term kidnapping victims who got taken out in public and didn't run. Castiel's behavior definitely not without precedent, but he does wonder how much of it was fear and how much it was his emotional connection to Winchester. "Do you know the name of the grocery store? How far away was it from where you were?"

"Rossway Groceries, and not exactly. Several hours drive. I didn't – I don't know where it was. Dean had me close my eyes at the crucial parts of the trip, both ways."

 _Had me close my eyes_ – not blindfolded. And Castiel had obeyed. Morgan just nods, putting that information away.

"And the second time was the same thing?" Reid asks, keeping his tone gentle. "You didn't see the relevant parts?"

"I know where the hunt was," Castiel says, and gives them the address – in another state entirely. "That was the first time I was taken out of the bunker overnight."

Balthazar can't seem to help himself from saying, "And you didn't run for it?" It's not accusatory, and Morgan knows that, but Castiel finches anyway.

"I was cuffed to the bed," Castiel says.

"That fucker, how dare he –"

"Balthazar, please, now isn't –" Reid begins.

"It wasn't like that," Castiel interrupts, tensing up and making his body small. His gaze flicks from Balthazar, to Morgan and Reid, and then back again. "He did it for me – he did it because he knew I would be upset. Having to think about escape, constantly having to check for every opportunity, it was so hard, Balthazar, I'm sorry but it – I couldn't do it forever, not when he'd drag me back bloody and screaming – I know I'm weak, I know that." He takes a deep breath, eyes filling with tears as he looks at Balthazar, like he's desperate to have his brother believe him. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry – "

Balthazar embraces Castiel, beginning to cry as well. "No, Cassie. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, please, don't cry." Balthazar looks at Morgan while he pulls Castiel's head to his shoulder. He mouths, _I'm a total fuckup._

"Castiel," Reid says quietly, "would you like to finish this later?"

Castiel shakes his head. His hands are closing into fists and then opening, over and over. "There's two more things. I should say. I don't want to say them but I should, I know I should, because I was an FBI agent and I know it's the right thing to do, even if Dean gets hurt."

"Castiel …" Morgan whispers. Even if Castiel weren't his friend, he'd end an interview here. "It's all right."

But Castiel just swallows roughly, face wet, and says, "Dean had my records. From two years before he took me, and six months before. A friend of his that he called Charlie, a girl, she got them for him by hacking into the FBI. Penelope might be able to track her down." He takes three deep breaths, expression a little dazed. "And there's this." He pulls up his left pant leg and exposes the cuff. "It has a GPS tracker on it."

Balthazar looks at the cuff, and then away and gags. "Fuck, oh fuck." He gags again, clearly holding back from throwing up.

"Can you take it off?" Castiel asks, looking at Morgan pleadingly. Like no matter how much he asks, Morgan won't help him. Feeling sick, Morgan wonders how many times Castiel asked Dean the same thing and was refused. "Please."

"Jaws of life should do it," Morgan says firmly, looking Castiel in the eye.

"Balthazar," Reid says, "would you like to come with me to help with setting that up?"

Balthazar seizes on this words, clearly knowing that he's upsetting Castiel more than helping at this point. "Yeah. Yeah. Cassie, I'll be back, okay? You just tell Agent Morgan if you need me."

Castiel nods faintly.

Despite his words, Reid has to almost drag Balthazar away from Castiel. Castiel watches with red-rimmed eyes, looking more confused than abandoned. Morgan recognizes the look – Castiel is losing track of what's going on, all the intricacies of conversation, and falling back into the trauma of the kidnapping. To the mindset he has been forced to live with. How many decisions and freedoms did Winchester take away? To turn his friend into someone who asked to be freed, and expected a no, even from his own team members? To someone who feared a decision?

It's like Castiel knows on some level why Balthazar is leaving, but not on all of them. He blinks rapidly when Balthazar is gone and stares down at his hands for a full minute before he's able to look at Morgan again.

But there's steel there. Castiel asks, "Did you know Hotch ordered the police here to arrest me?"

"What?"

"If I tried to go. He said to arrest me." Castiel's voice is blank.

Morgan feels anger, lets it go. He knows the reason for that order. "No, I didn't know that."

"I can't be imprisoned again," Castiel says. Orders. For the first time, he's firm. He's shaking, his face is tear-streaked, but he says, "I can't live that way. With that fear. If I run, I run. I won't be held captive, not by you, not by anyone. Don't put me on a psych hold, nothing. I don't fucking care what you think I will or won't do. I won't live that way."

"I understand. I'll let him know," Morgan says softly.

"Promise me," Castiel commands.

"I promise," Morgan says. "I promise you won't be held against your will."

A small sigh leaves Castiel.

Morgan debates what to do for a moment longer, but in the end he takes Balthazar's spot by Castiel's side and places a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there and remains a point of physical contact. After about ten minutes, the trembles fade. Castiel rubs his eyes and then his face before looking up and meeting Morgan's gaze.

"That's all I know about where Dean could be," Castiel says at last.

"I'll call Penelope and get her started on that," Morgan says. He hesitates, and then adds, "You know that we would do everything possible to take Dean alive."

Castiel tilts his head, blue eyes surprised. "Would you?"

"For your sake, I would."

"Thank you," Castiel says. "For that, but also for – for understanding. That I don't want him dead."

"Anything you need, okay?" Morgan doesn't understand why Castiel wants Winchester alive. Not for sure. Stockholm Syndrome is something the team has thrown back and forth for a year, but past victims, like Patty Hearst, didn't escape their captors on their own. Patty Hearst said that she didn't feel like she regained her free will until she was forcibly separated from her captors for two weeks. But Castiel ran in a matter of an hour or two.

Castiel nods. "Thank you," he repeats. His gaze drifts to the door and he pulls his pant leg over the cuff, hiding it.

"Do you want him to escape, Castiel?" Morgan asks. It's not something he'd normally ask a victim. But he asks it now anyway.

Castiel pauses for a moment, and doesn't look away. "No."

It's a lie. Morgan knows it's a lie.

He said, in those quick mash of words, that he knew he should tell them – the FBI – everything they needed to capture Winchester. It makes Morgan wonder if Castiel wants to return to the FBI and knew that would heavily play into him passing a psychiatric examination.

Castiel is shaking and on the verge of a mental breakdown, but he's still the highly intelligent person Morgan knew before. Morgan can't forget that. Not only because Castiel is his friend, but because Castiel is also their best chance of catching a serial killer.

He watches as Castiel calms himself down with deep breathing, meditative breathing.

Castiel is hiding something. Every gut instinct Morgan has is screaming it.

That's when Balthazar comes back with a firefighter.

* * *

Castiel is going to have to lie. He knows he'll have to lie. He didn't even think about it until now, but he's going to have to lie about Dean in a multitude of ways, and the cuff even more. He can't tell them it's magical and it worked with magical barriers; that might get him committed, Morgan's promise or not. At the same time, he'll have to come up some kind of explanation for why he couldn't escape the bunker when he had access to so much of it.

Two cuffs. The one he's wearing now, that despite it being on his ankle nearly constantly for eighteen months, he will have to say it he only wears it while Dean is taking him outside. It has no visible mechanism to keep Castiel prisoner, after all, just the GPS marker.

He'll have to lie about the bunker, too. Maybe hidden sensors that trigger and shut doors. Fuck, he doesn't know. He just has to either come up with something convincing or convince them that he can't emotionally talk about it. For the first time, panic about something that's not directly about Dean rises.

And Morgan sees it. Well, sees something. Castiel feels laid bare, because he knows Morgan is analyzing everything he says and does, all the turns of phrase that Castiel won't catch before he says it. And that's just Morgan, and they're fifteen minutes into a debriefing that will take hours. Weeks. Or even months.

There's a knock at the door. Morgan looks up, and Castiel looks at him.

Morgan still has that professional expression, the one he uses for traumatized children, which is all softness and understanding, with a deep calm behind it. He never lets the victims see his rage on their behalf. Castiel is sure even now that that rage exists for Castiel, even if Morgan does think Castiel is lying about something. Morgan gets up and answers the door, finding a fireman in full gear behind it.

"I hear we've got a manacle to get off?" the firefighter asks, a young man with an earnest look on his face.

"Yes," Castiel answers before Morgan can. "Yes."

Morgan looks back at Castiel and gives him a small smile.

"Well, I've got everything you could want," the firefighter says with easy confidence. "Shall we start with bolt cutters first?"

They start with bolt cutters first. They make a dent in the metal, but don't sever the cuff entirely. Two more firefighters arrive, along with Reid and a rather embarrassed-looking Balthazar, and they debate the issue while looking at Castiel's ankle. They've got a cloth between the cuff and his skin, but they'll need to be even more careful if they have to use something heavier than the bolt cutter. Castiel lets the conversation roll over his head, focusing on the fact that soon it will be gone. The cuff will be gone.

Balthazar holds his hand, and his grip is tight and sweaty. Castiel's been thankful for few things as much as he is for that touch.

In the end, they use a mechanized version of a bolt cutter. Not quite as large as the jaws of life, but similar. A towel is placed between Castiel's skin and the cuff and the cuff is rotated so the GPS won't be cut in half. They intend to use that portion to see if Dean is still tracking it.

"You ready?" the first firefighter asks Castiel.

Castiel nods.

"I can't look," Balthazar says, sounding queasy. "This won't hurt him, will it?"

"We've done this before, don't worry," the firefighter assures Balthazar. "You'd be surprised at what people cuff themselves to." Morgan and another firefighter are holding Castiel in the proper position so he won't be injured, so he doesn't twitch, but they're all staring at the cuff. The same one that Dean has caressed and kissed.

And then the cuff is cut. Once, then twice, so it falls in two halves.

Castiel lets loose a sob. Pain at rejecting Dean totally, but relief, too, as the last part of Dean's ownership of him disappears.

For a year and a half Castiel has been cuffed like an animal, tagged like an animal. Now he's free. He watches as Morgan collects the two halves, examining the GPS.

Castiel reflexively reaches for his ankle, touching the bare skin. He can feel the calluses from the cuff, a reminder, but when he stretches out his foot, there's no accompanying feeling of weight. When he lifts his leg, it feels oddly light. He stands up, ignoring the people in the room watching him. He takes a step forward, his first truly free step. His body is unbalanced, but his second step comes a bit easier. It's more than an analogy.

"Cassie?"

Castiel looks at Balthazar, and begins to cry again. He doesn't even know how, it feels like he can't stop weeping and making an emotional mess of himself. He clears his throat and admits, "It feels so strange."

Balthazar hugs him and whispers into his ear, "You'll be used to it in no time. 'Cause it's staying that way."

Castiel's tired of crying, but his body isn't. It takes him time to calm down enough to control the tears, and he may have spent the last day stuck in a room inside a police station, but it's still so much more than he had before. The fact that he sees random people, that the officers outside change shifts. He's seen more than thirty different people, even though he's spent almost all his time in here.

The world is still a bit of a blurred haze, moving too fast for Castiel to really catch everything.

Morgan leaves at some point and then returns, empty-handed. The firefighters, job done, go back to their own station. Balthazar gets lunch for himself and Castiel, and this time it's hot food, and Castiel is able to finish most of it. Morgan and Balthazar talk while Castiel rubs his temples, letting the words flow over him and paying attention when he can, letting it drift when he can't. He does catch the concerned looks they both throw at him, because before his captivity Castiel could keep track of multiple threads of conversation at once and interject at appropriate times, and now he can barely manage one.

Logically, Castiel knows it's a combination of trauma and prolonged isolation. Mostly the prolonged isolation, in his opinion. He's no longer panicking when he sees more than one person in the same room with him, but he also can't track them all that well either.

Balthazar quiets down after a while, and JJ replaces Morgan, bringing a random book with her. He reads the first chapter five times. He thinks that sometimes he can hear his former team outside the door, talking about catching Dean.

After Castiel puts the book down, realizing he's never going to finish it at this rate, JJ is the one to sit him down and ask about injuries. "You told the police here you were physically fine, but did you get any injuries during escaping that need looked at? Any injuries during the last eighteen months that should be checked out?"

Castiel is about to say no, then reconsiders. Dean was competent when it came to medical care, so even the injuries he got during his imprisonment were well-cared for. But Dean isn't a doctor, and doesn't have advanced medical equipment. Anna probably healed anything lingering after his first two attempts, but not the third. "I got a severe concussion nine months ago. I was bedridden for a couple of weeks, and blacked out several times. No symptoms since."

JJ nods. "You'll need an MRI, then, to make sure there's no hidden bleeding or blockages." She purses her lips. "Would you be okay going to the hospital? After this long, you should have a full checkup."

"That's fine," Castiel says. And it is; he doesn't mind. It's probably for the best.

"Do you think Dean is still here?" JJ asks.

Castiel pauses in surprise. "In town? I doubt it."

"You told Detective Lorenson that he wouldn't come here to the police station because they were bystanders. What did you mean by that?"

Castiel hesitates, debating how much of the truth to tell and how much to hide. He knows the question is tactical, not directed at his mental state, but that doesn't mean JJ won't note any of that in his reply. "Dean considers everyone who doesn't know about the supernatural to be civilians. Police forces are annoyances at best, but Dean does consider them innocent bystanders. That's why he's never had a shoot-out with police and always surrenders to escape later."

JJ looks like she's about to ask another question, skepticism on her face, but she stops herself. "So if we accompany you to the hospital, you'll be safe?"

"Yes. Dean would never risk it."

JJ nods again. "I'll go get Balthazar for you and set that up." She smiles at him. "Welcome home, Castiel."

"Thank you, JJ," Castiel says softly. He can tell she means it, and it makes his eyes sting.

Hotchner and Rossi come back finally, and go over how Castiel will be transported to the hospital. Castiel misses most of the details – five people talking to each other is way too much, and he can't keep track of it all – but he knows that they're treating Dean as a serious threat to Castiel's safety. Castiel doesn't know if Dean will come for him again, or give up, or kill himself, or any number of other possible responses, but he does know Dean won't do it now. Dean's not stupid; there's too many people around Castiel. So he doesn't fear being recaptured … not yet.

Balthazar holds Castiel's hand all the way to the local FBI's SUV. One police car is parked in front of it, and one behind. Two officers stand outside the one in front, chatting. Castiel hears, " – so what, a serial killer took an FBI agent as a fucktoy? And a guy? That's really fucking weird."

Three feet from the car door, Castiel flinches and stumbles.

Balthazar, still grasping Castiel's hand, shouts, "Hey, fucktards! Shut the fuck up!"

Despite the jolt of shame – they don't even know that Castiel consented, they don't know everything Castiel allowed to happen – Castiel smiles at his brother. Always the first one to call people names, especially when he knew he wasn't going to get beat for it. Brazen, that was his brother, but not stupid.

"You're just a bunch of fucking little shits –" Balthazar continues.

"Bal, it's all right," Castiel says, squeezing his brother's hand.

The two police officers look horribly uncomfortable and rather guilty. Castiel could complain, but they only said what everyone thinks, and there's no changing that. One reaches over and opens the door for Castiel. "Sorry," he says. "But it is really weird."

Castiel meets his eyes. "Yes, I know."

Morgan ducks in and says to Castiel, close, "I'll talk to their captain."

Castiel looks up and meets Morgan's dark, sincere eyes. He nods once.

Almost the entire team is in the car with him. He's in the center seat, which blocks a lot of the view outside, but it's a bit of a relief. The loud sounds and colors of the world are still hard for Castiel to take in. He's not quite as bad as the first time Dean took him to out, to the grocery store, when he was basically nonfunctional, but he closes his eyes anyway. He only looks around a few times, noting the worried glances Reid and JJ are giving him, but choosing not to do anything about it.

They'll understand, he thinks.

The hospital is cold and sterile, but they must have called ahead, because there's a bed ready. When Castiel strips and puts on a gown, he feels naked.

"Do you want me to stay?" Balthazar asks quietly.

Castiel just nods.

The physical exam is tiring and invasive, even though the doctor tries to be slow and gentle. The accompanying nurse notes everything – all his scars, including his old ones, like the mottled circle from a gunshot. And the ones on his hip, where he had cut into himself over and over again before throwing the knife into the bush, outside of his boundary, and the small one to the inside of his wrist, which is so small and slight he's surprised she even marked it. They see the slight bruises on his hips from the last time he and Dean had sex, and she asks very gingerly, "Do you want a sexual assault exam?"

"No," Castiel snaps. He's not a rape victim, and he doesn't want to be treated like one.

The nurse just accepts that. "No problem. Let me know if you change your mind or need anything. We'll be back in about an hour for your MRI." Then she leaves.

Not even quite sure why, as soon as the door closes, he follows. Castiel is still an open case, as long as Dean's not caught, so his medical records will be shared with the FBI. Balthazar's still sleeping in the side chair, snoring away, so he presses his ear against the door and listens.

" – signs of self-harm. A new knife wound to his stomach, too. He refused a rape kit but there are signs of recent sexual activity."

Hotchner's voice responds, too low to be understood. Castiel decides he doesn't even want to know, and returns to the bed.

Balthazar eyes him but doesn't comment. "Are you okay?"

Castiel nods silently.

After about fifteen minutes, Balthazar finally falls asleep. Castiel knows he stayed up nearly all night, watching Castiel in the cot. He sits there for a few minutes, just watching Balthazar sleep.

Everyone knows that he had a sexual relationship with Dean. It was no doubt evident from what Dean told them in interrogation, and he knows they had Dean's camera. Castiel doesn't know the exact pictures that were on it, but he knows that the uncomfortable and comfortable intimacy he had with Dean is no doubt very obvious. They slept in the same bed, after all, and Dean took at least one picture of him half-clothed.

They probably think Dean tied him to a bed and raped him.

But it's not that simple. Castiel still doesn't entirely know what to think of their first sexual encounters, and how consensual they were, but by the end, he knows he was fully consenting. Dean would always respect his decision to say no, and did so several times when Castiel told him to back off. Only returning when Castiel took the first step. Touching Dean in bed, or walking in on Dean masturbating, and giving him a blow job. Asking Dean to fuck him.

What would he do, if Dean walked in here right now?

Hit him? Rage at him? Castiel is afraid of his own shadow. Afraid of freedom. Every moment since his escape has been overwhelming, a mess of choices and decisions to make. Dean took that away from him, leaving terror in his wake. Maybe some small part wishes he hadn't run and didn't have this long struggle ahead, but the rest of him is glad. Relieved. He has Balthazar again. He has the entire world.

But he still wrote those three words, and he knows he still means them: _don't kill yourself._

Dean is out there, somewhere. Castiel doesn't know if he'll take Castiel again. If he'll enlist Anna to kidnap him, and if he does, there's no way Castiel can avoid that. Can he?

Castiel walks to Balthazar, and gently digs into his pockets until he finds Balthazar's phone. He opens up a browser and puts in 'enochian symbols.' He did once see the symbol to banish angels in the library. Surely, after the whole mess with heaven went down, people started disseminating information like that. Angels hadn't walked the earth in two thousand years so all of that information was lost, but Anna's rebellion and the ensuing civil war must have created small groups that would spread it. Even demons might put it online.

He flicks through dozens of websites and pictures, memorizing as he goes. Then he wipes the history and puts it back in Balthazar's pocket.

Castiel isn't going to let himself be taken captive again easily. He's going to fight.

He _will_ keep his freedom.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Dean should reappear in the next chapter. :)  
 **Warnings:** Reference to past dubious consent.

Feedback is loved! (ETA: I may have missed replying to some reviews due to the error where reviews were not initially showing up.)

* * *

Castiel is sleeping. Not quite awake, not really dreaming, he drifts in between for what seems like an hour. He's curled up under covers that are heavier than usual, and the sheets are rougher against his skin. The spot next to him is cold. Did Dean wake up already?

A hand shakes his shoulder. "Dean?" he asks sleepily, wanting that familiar warmth.

"No, Cassie, it's me," Balthazar says.

Castiel opens his eyes to beige walls and a tastefully bland piece of art. Not the bunker. Not hard, gray walls with no windows. In fact, sunlight streams through a narrow window. The heavier layer of curtains has been drawn back, leaving only the thin, gauzy white curtains that barely give privacy. Castiel remembers going to sleep here now, after landing in an airport near Quantico. Hotchner decided they could better protect Castiel here than in Texas, Balthazar's home.

Balthazar is leaning in and eyeing Castiel a little too closely than is comfortable, his hand still on Castiel's shoulder. "We're at the safehouse. Remember?"

After a moment, Castiel nods. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Balthazar says uncomfortably. He looks torn between changing the subject and asking a question. The obvious question. He apparently decides to go for the middle ground when he says, "You reached over in your sleep."

Castiel looks at his brother for a long moment. Dean would go on hunts, of course. But for the past seven months he had Aditi to keep him company in Dean's place (he taught her not to while Dean was around), and so he's not used to an empty bed. Should he answer? He feels weirdly embarrassed, like he's admitting to his parents that he let a girlfriend sleep over or something. "I'm – I'm not used to sleeping alone."

A sick look passes across Balthazar's face, but he just swallows. "I slept in the chair. Is that okay?"

Castiel softens. "Yes, of course. I like having you here."

"Breakfast is ready," Balthazar says, looking a bit more at ease. "Agent Morgan took night shift, so he went home, but Dr. Reid and Agent Hotchner are here."

Castiel frowns. "Hotch is here? He should be at home with his son." It's the weekend now, and Castiel knows better than anyone just how much a job with the BAU tends to crowd out time spent with family.

"He said he'd be leaving in a few hours," Balthazar says with a shrug. "Oh, and there's an agent outside, just in case." He grabs a duffel from the floor, which is new based on what Castiel remembers from getting off the plane last night. "We got some of your clothes from your apartment, so you have stuff that's, y'know, familiar to be in." Balthazar offers him a hopeful smile.

"You kept my apartment?" Castiel asks, startled.

"You asked me to," Balthazar says, firm.

That would have been a high financial cost. Most people don't have two apartments for a reason. Castiel left that in the letter to tell them that he would still escape, that he wasn't giving up, and then he did. The fact that Balthazar didn't give up in the same way stings in a way it really shouldn't. "Thank you."

Balthazar shoots him a pleased smile, the tired look to his face fading a little. He leaves the room and Castiel throws back the covers. Getting dressed in clothes he only vaguely remembers having actually owned is weird, especially so since Castiel got used to his wardrobe at Dean's. Castiel had tended towards softer materials, but Dean tended to buy clothing that was made to last, ignoring the roughness of fabric in favor of usefulness. Not that Dean didn't do everything he could to please Castiel, but a lot of clothing he used in the beginning was Dean's old clothing or random store-bought items. When he slips on a pair of slacks and socks, he's half-surprised to find they still fit. A t-shirt goes on top, soft.

He wanders into the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. And finds himself, or at least some piece of the Castiel that existed a year and a half ago. It's almost startling, to see how his eyes don't look so lost. He reaches out and touches the mirror, tilting his face this way and that. Is this the presence of freedom or the absence of captivity? The absence of Dean?

Shivering, he turns away. He walks through the bedroom, avoiding the creaky wood flooring he noticed in the hallway last night and creeps up on the kitchen.

He hears Balthazar first. " – slept in the same bed?"

Hotchner answers, too low to be understood. Castiel frowns in frustration, holding his breath. This time he does want to know what's being said. " – you should focus on being normal. For him, it's been a long time since he had that. You know him better than we do, so it's up to you when you think he wants to talk, but you should do your best not to react to anything he says." Hotchner pauses. "I understand it will be difficult to hear how Castiel was hurt, but he may not see it the same way as you do, and arguing over that would be too stressful for him now."

"He may intellectualize his experience," Reid adds. "I know I've done the same with my own experiences, and Castiel and I are a lot alike."

"I just get the feeling he's going to defend that fucker," Balthazar says, angry. "Do you know he's got a bite scar on his neck from that bastard?"

Castiel winces. He walks back down the hallway, then returns, being careful this time to hit the creaky floorboard before he enters the kitchen.

Hotchner and Reid are seated at the table. Reid's gun is visible and still holstered, as his Hotchner's.

"Good morning," Reid says, giving Castiel a calm smile. "Waffles?"

Castiel sits at the table and takes a plate.

"How are you doing?" Balthazar asks awkwardly, taking the seat closest to Castiel.

Castiel hesitates. "I'm all right."

Hotchner eyes Castiel closely for a moment. "Would you feel comfortable answering a few questions about Dean?"

Castiel knows he has to. Has to cooperate. He deliberately didn't tell them about the Wichita PO box because he feared that would lead them too closely to Dean – he doesn't even know if Dean is aware he knows about that, and so it could be a fatal reveal – and there's other things, other details that Castiel can't think of right now that might do the same. Any conversation he has with Hotchner or the team about Dean is a tightrope, and falling will hurt them both. "A few."

"I was remembering your phone call. What did you mean when you said, 'He's not what we thought'?" Hotchner asks.

Castiel looks away. He meant a lot of things, but mostly that Dean isn't a psychopathic serial killer – that the world he inhabits is real. That the supernatural is real. He couldn't explain that in the phone call then, and he can't explain it now. Not fully. But maybe partially. Yes, Castiel can make this work. "Dean is a vigilante killer."

Hotchner looks surprised. Well, as surprised as Hotchner ever looks – all that signals it is the slight crease between his eyebrows and the barest tilt of his head. "What do you mean?"

"Look at his cases again. A considerable portion of the time, the murders or strange events occur before we recorded either Dean or Sam being there, or overlap with them recorded being somewhere else. The crimes end when they leave. Victims and witnesses are reluctant to testify, or outright refuse."

"Because they owe a debt," Reid says slowly. Castiel can practically see his mind whirring, going over Dean's massive case file with his perfect memory and seeing if Castiel's theory fits. "You're saying it's not fear of him?"

Castiel smiles faintly. "Dean's a murderer. He admitted that to me a day in. But in his mind, those murders were justified, and not just for his own personal psychology, but in a greater context."

"His father sought his mother's killer," Hotchner muses. "And he murders those who kill in the same way."

"Yes. Precisely. Dean followed in his father's footsteps, but he took it even farther."

"How does the psychosis play in?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't know for sure. It's hard to say how much of his stories were real and how much wasn't. But based on my memory, the pattern of vigilantism holds true."

"He didn't exhibit psychosis in front of you?" Reid asks.

Castiel stares down at his plate. "Very rarely."

They accept that wordlessly, and Hotchner changes the subject. "Garcia believes she's close to being able to contact the Charlie hacker you mentioned, but hasn't been able to track her down physically yet or find out her real name. Do you know anything else about her?"

Castiel eyes Hotchner a moment. "She didn't know that Dean had taken me. Dean said … Dean said that she'd have killed him if she knew."

"She still aided a known criminal," Reid says cautiously.

"She's not a bad person," Castiel says. "Everything Dean said about her, I got the impression she was very kind." He hesitates again. Charlie is even more innocent than Dean, as far as he knows. He doesn't actually know if Charlie is kind, but judging from the fondness in Dean's random mentions, he's assuming she is. "I'd rather you didn't focus on arresting her to the exclusion of other leads. From what I gathered, she didn't believe Dean was guilty of any the crimes he's suspected of. I think she's innocent in all of this."

"I can't promise that," Hotchner says.

"If Penelope can contact her, can I give advice on what to say, then?" Castiel asks.

"I'll listen to any suggestions," Hotchner says, that apparently an easy enough concession to make.

After that, Reid deliberately changes the subject yet again. This time the topic is closer to home, as they discuss cases they've taken in the past eighteen months. Castiel doesn't get an incredible amount of detail – probably because some of said details are limited to case officers – instead it offers him insight to how things have been for the team, in terms of progress. He finds out that they had guesting agents, one of whom stayed for six months, but the others were all less time than that. They weren't trying to replace Castiel. Hotchner was experimenting with team dynamic and seeing how different specialties – like concentrations in language and how it exposes psychology, to the intense study of the behavior of criminals once caught and in prison. It's interesting, and since Reid and Hotchner are careful to keep the conversation slow, Castiel understands all of it. His book reading kept up his cognitive functioning, it's the social aspect of conversation he has trouble with after all this time.

When all he had to read was books and Dean.

Balthazar being Balthazar, he brought a few movies in his luggage. Reid finds an ancient dvd player, and Castiel is subjected to choosing between horrible scifi films.

"This one, please?" Castiel asks, pointing at a title with a shark in the air on it.

For some reason, Balthazar's smile falters. But he nods.

When the first title appears, Balthazar sits next to Castiel on the couch, almost close enough to touch. Castiel smiles at him, appreciating what Balthazar is trying to do – close enough to offer comfort, far enough not to smother.

Watching movies with Dean trained Castiel to offer biting commentary. Dean never cared about Castiel interrupting a film to say something because he seemed to find anything Castiel said worth listening to. His interest in Castiel's thinking and preferences was obsessive.

But this time, his habit taught by Dean's encouragement serves him well. Hotchner, Reid and Balthazar all relax the first time Castiel dryly says, "I'm pretty sure a 10.0 earthquake would split the earth in half. Do they even know about the Richter scale?"

Ice cream is next, then another question.

Hotchner broaches the topic only when Castiel is pretty clearly relaxed. He's not thinking about Dean, about what he's lost as well as what he's gained, and he's not thinking about how he will have to guard against Anna eventually. And he definitely isn't thinking about the pit of fear and anxiety that have followed him since his escape, or the weird longing to have Dean hold him.

Balthazar can actually make meals, so he took on lunch. He hums while he works, completely off-tune.

Hotchner watches him for a few minutes, then turns to Castiel and says, "You don't have to answer anything I'm about to say right now, Castiel. I just want to emphasize that. Right now your first duty is to rest and recover."

"What is it?" Castiel asks, tensing up.

"If you intend to return to the FBI as a field agent, within a few weeks you will need to begin attending therapy. We've already found someone with experience with kidnapping situations –" Castiel notices he does not say 'victim', "who is also qualified by the FBI to say whether you're ready to return to work."

"If that's what you want," Reid adds.

"I don't need to wait to answer that," Castiel says. "Yes. I want to return." He takes two, quick breaths. The thought of therapy terrifies him, though he can't admit that, no matter how understanding they would try to be. He can't tell them the full truth any more than he can say the same to the therapist. Dean must always remain a psychotic killer, driven by delusions. How easy would it be for a therapist to see through Castiel's mask, that he believes Dean? That he knows the supernatural is real, as solidly as a serial killer does? Castiel is smart, he knows he is, but he hasn't had to walk that kind of line before, and not like this, when he's still – frankly – traumatized. Floundering while he tries to cope with the outside world.

It's so hard to act normal. To readjust what his version of normal is. To be alone. He misses Dean, suddenly and terribly, and knows he can never say that out loud. He misses the absolute certainty that Dean might hurt him, but that Dean will still always try to heal the wounds he creates.

Now there's just Castiel, fumbling with bandages on his own wounded psyche.

"Castiel, we can discuss this later," Hotchner assures him. "It can take a while to cope, no matter how well-adjusted you are."

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't know if this will make sense to you, but I had so little to … to hold onto. But I kept in my mind the things I wanted with my freedom, and those were Bal and my job."

Balthazar smiles, painful but glad. He puts a plate with a sandwich on it in front of Castiel, then places his hand on Castiel's shoulder, a comforting weight. "Cassie," he whispers.

"Let me know when you're ready, then," Hotchner says. "You know the BAU will always have a spot for you."

"Thank you," Castiel says, grateful. He did worry, in that first year before he gave up, if even if he got away, he'd ever get back what he lost. He looks at Balthazar, too. "Thank you."

Reid catches Castiel's eye. Reid is leaning back in his seat, his long fingers forming a v shape as he contemplates Castiel. It's analytic, but that doesn't bother Castiel. Him and Reid have understood each other since the beginning of their working relationship, because Reid thinks about everything in the same detail and thorough analysis as Castiel does. Of course, Castiel has yet to win a game of chess with Reid, but they respect each other, a respect borne out of understanding.

The safehouse has a small yard, and when they go outside – still a joy for Castiel – Reid says in passing, "I meant what I said. Remember that."

"My memory isn't as good as yours, but I won't forget," Castiel says with a small smile. Reid isn't the one in the team that always knows what to say, but in that moment, no words could have been better chosen.

Castiel spends most of the afternoon in silence, just absorbing being outside, sitting in an old, creaky wood lawn chair. They're in a suburb, so it's not at all quiet like the yard of the bunker was. He hears cars driving by and the sound of children playing off in the distance. This is the world which everyone else inhabits, and Castiel is slowly learning the flavor of it again. Not just to experience it, but also to block it out. He lost most of his ability to cope in normal situations because of his captivity, but this is an opportunity to begin retraining his brain to live in a busy, populated world.

The others seem to understand that. Not Balthazar, of course, but Reid whispers something to him and his brother finally settles down.

Hotchner leaves before long, and about half an hour after that Castiel gets a call from Garcia.

 _"How are you? Are you okay?"_ Penelope asks.

"I'm okay," Castiel says, his eyes filling with tears. Thankfully, the others have backed off to allow him some privacy. "Thanks for looking for me, Penelope."

 _"Of course I did,"_ she says, sounding sweetly heart-broken the way only she can. Her voice hardens as she proclaims, _"And I will catch that slimy bastard if it's the last thing I do. I may not be able to run out there with a gun but I will give you cyber vengeance, Castiel. No one can hide from me in my world, and I know every hacker out there."_

Castiel pauses. "Charlie didn't know. If you do talk to her … keep that in mind, okay?"

 _"I'll do what I can, but you know me when I've sworn vengeance,"_ Penelope replies, half sounding like she's humoring him, and half sounding like she wants to reach across the internet and attack Charlie.

Castiel laughs. "Anyone who underestimates you does so at their own peril."

 _"Absolutely right, sweetheart."_

When Penelope finally hangs up, Castiel gives the phone back to Reid and slouches, half dozing in the sunlight. He tries to release the tension held in his muscles, making his back ache. It's like he's forgotten how to relax in a place like this, so used to Dean's palace of a prison.

When night falls, Castiel has been free for two days.

So different from day two with Dean.

Morgan arrives with Chinese takeout, which Castiel hasn't had in a year and a half. Dean only made meals fresh since the bunker was so remote, and while he was a good cook and would make anything Castiel requested, there's nothing like going through a menu and finding something you haven't heard of to try. He devours anything he doesn't recognize, ignoring the bemused look his brother is giving him. Morgan just looks pleased.

"How is the investigation?" Castiel finally manages to ask.

Morgan watches him for a moment before exchanging a brief look with Reid. "Good. We have leads."

Castiel's stomach twists upon itself. Is Dean safe? Did Castiel reveal too much?

"Don't worry about it," Morgan tells him.

"Whether you want Dean caught or not, there's nothing you can do about it now," Reid says. Morgan gives Reid a sharp look, but Reid just continues, "Logically, there's no reason for you to even be thinking about it at this point. The team is covering it."

Castiel nods. "Right. Of course." And he relaxes. Reid is right, there's nothing he can do about it now.

Morgan is the one to look bemused this time, but he shrugs it off.

A game of chess later, it's barely nine in the evening, but Castiel is tired, so he begs off anything else and goes to the master bedroom that is his for now. He lays down and pulls the pillow into his arms, curled up into a ball. He's not really tired enough to sleep yet, so he lets the events of the past day work through his mind at a slow, leisurely rate. His coworkers are still walking on eggshells around him, and Balthazar varies between copying them and being a bull in a china shop. But even that is familiar. Balthazar's never been subtle. In a weird way, it reminds him of Dean, but then again Dean had a thousand worries and doubts underlying all his actions in a way that Balthazar simply doesn't. What you see is what you get, with his brother. Dean, as direct as he tries to be, is a mess of trauma and defense mechanisms.

The bed dips when Balthazar sits down, and Castiel looks at him. His brother has that expression on his face that says he's about to start asking questions he's not sure he wants answers to; Castiel can't count how many times he saw that look on Balthazar's voice when Balthazar would ask about Castiel's work.

"Do you want to talk about it? I mean … the whole thing?" Balthazar shifts so he's closer to Castiel and runs a hand through Castiel's hair. Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, hearing the concern in his brother's voice, as well as the reluctant curiosity. "You've been gone so long, and I have no idea what you've been through."

"How much did the BAU tell you?" Castiel asks, opening his eyes.

Balthazar puts his hands in his lap, fidgeting. "They, um, tried to avoid a lot of it. But that fucker's crimes can be found, if you know where to look. But they kept telling me that you were okay after they caught that fucker for a while. Physically, anyway. They wouldn't say how you were doing in your head, but then I guess they wouldn't know? I don't know, Cassie. I know that fucker tortured people. Once they gave me the profile that that fucker was a stalker who was obsessed with you, Agent Morgan admitted that … that …" He looks sick. "That rape was a possibility, along with torture."

Castiel keeps his tone even. Blank, actually, because he has no idea what to feel about the no doubt horrible images Balthazar has in his head. "I'm surprised he told you that."

"I'm convincing when I want to be, you know that," Balthazar replies. "Plus lots of harassing phone calls. Also, I googled philosophies that emphasize truth-telling. And interrogation techniques that spies used. And used those arguments. And it mostly worked - Reid was the only one who knew where I was getting all that shit."

Castiel shifts onto his back and stares bleakly at the window. How can he possibly explain any of this? "He didn't rape me, Bal."

"Didn't he?" Balthazar looks him straight in the eyes, for once not backing down. He's been so careful not to upset Castiel. "I saw some of the photos. Got out what the rest were from Dr. Reid."

"We had … a sexual relationship. But he didn't rape me. It wasn't like that."

Balthazar makes a disbelieving noise. "Cassie, you don't even like guys."

"I know. I just … he had a way. Of making it feel good. And I didn't want to think about it beyond that." Castiel looks down at his hands. At his body. Which he used to give Dean pleasure. That he got pleasure in return seems almost inconsequential now, even though it meant everything then. "I don't know. I don't even know why I kissed him. Why I initiated it."

Balthazar sounds sickened. "Okay, Cassie."

Castiel looks up. "Whenever I said no, he respected that. That wasn't it. It was like … like saying yes made sense after a while." And despite the pain intermingled with it, there's a longing to have that again.

His brother doesn't reply immediately. He just searches Castiel's face, though for what Castiel can't even guess. "I wish I'd snapped his neck in that interrogation room."

 _I don't_. "He's not an evil person, Bal."

Balthazar shoots to his feet and explodes. "Of course he fucking is! He's a serial killer! He's murdered dozens!"

Only Castiel knows that of all the crimes Dean is on trial for, only the ones against Castiel actually happened. He sighs and rubs his face, knowing he can never explain that to Balthazar. Oh, he could try to prove that magic is real, much how Dean did, but what would be the point? Balthazar hates Dean for the crime he _did_ commit. And to know the supernatural real is a burden he'd rather not place on his brother.

Balthazar isn't done. "He kidnapped you and held you against your will and put a fucking cuff on your ankle like you were an animal and he _raped_ you, Cassie. You flinch every time anyone speaks loud and you can't keep track of more than one person talking and you beg for everything like we'll say no, no you can't have eggs for breakfast. What the fuck did he do to you?"

Castiel sits up and throws the first thing he finds, which is a glass of water on the side table. It hits the wall and shatters loudly. "Well I'm fucking sorry I don't fit your expectations of victimhood, but it wasn't like that, and you don't know – you don't understand, Bal, and you probably never will. Fuck, do you even want to? Know what he did? What I did? What I said yes to?"

Balthazar stares at him, struck silent.

"I let him fuck me. I sucked him off. I swallowed his come and I fucking begged for all of it. Is that what you want to hear? That your brother fucked a serial killer? That I love him, no matter how fucking twisted that is?"

"I want him dead, that's what I want!" Balthazar shouts, tears slipping down his cheeks. "Because you had to endure all of that." He wipes his face and breathes deeply. "I wasn't lying when I said before I don't blame for you for anything. Anything you did to survive. I don't care, Cassie. I mean, I care, but it doesn't matter. You matter." Balthazar kneels on the floor in front of him and grabs his hands and whispers, "I love you, little brother. I just want you safe and healthy."

Castiel stares down at him. "I don't know if I ever will be." He begins to cry. "I don't even know what to feel, if I should be angry at him, or at myself, I don't know. I just wish this would all _stop_." The pain, the struggle to remain free, the longing. He takes huge, heaving breaths, quicker and quicker. "Sometimes I wonder if I'd have been better off not running."

"NO. FUCKING NO," Balthazar yells.

In the distance, CAstiel can hear people scrambling to their feet and thumping towards the closed bedroom door.

Balthazar takes a deep breath and says, fast and urgent, "No matter how much pain you are in now, Cassie, you are free. And you can finally heal, with me and your friends, your family."

The anger disappears as something inside of Castiel breaks, and Castiel throws himself into Balthazar's arms, weeping and collapsing to the floor. Balthazar has to struggle to take his sudden weight, his long arms wrapping around Castiel. Bal is right. This is what Castiel fought for, and it will hurt, it will hurt like being stabbed again and again, like his gunshot wound ripping him into every day, but he's no longer chained up and subject to another's desires. Just his own. The tears come fast and hot, but something is loosening in his chest, like he's tearing off a bandage and letting all the poison run out.

People appear at the door. Castiel ignores them, eyesight blurry and his body a muddled mess of limbs and sensation. He focuses on Balthazar, who holds him despite not causing his pain. Bright blue eyes instead of green. And Balthazar begins to sing, badly and out of tune, and it's not _Hey, Jude._ It's some silly childhood ditty that their mother used to sing to them. It's brotherhood and history, forty years old. This is what Dean had with his own brother, before he lost Sam and broke. But Castiel isn't Dean. He has Balthazar. And he has more than that.

And he refuses to stay broken.

When he eventually calms, he finds that Morgan has taken Balthazar's chair, and he's reading one of Castiel's books. Balthazar is a solid rock to lean against, and he does. His brother is still rubbing his shoulder, the motion absentminded now.

"Morgan," Castiel says, making Balthazar jump, "I want my own home."

"You're safer in a house like this," Morgan says cautiously, putting the book down.

"I know. But Penelope patched the vulnerability Dean's friend used. And if I don't register my address anywhere, he can't find it. He can't use Charlie again. I know I can't go back to my apartment, but I don't want to live in hiding. Morgan … I don't want to give in."

Morgan eyes him a moment longer. "I'll talk to Hotch, see what we can work out. You know we took you here to keep you safe, right?"

Castiel smiles faintly. "I know."

Balthazar's chest rumbles when he speaks. "I'll go wherever you go, little brother."

* * *

The next morning, Morgan meets Hotchner at the office to talk and figure out there plans from here. Rossi is spending the day at the safehouse, and Penelope is stopping by for an hour or two to finally see Castiel in person. Castiel had smiled at the news and it was the same smile that Morgan remembers, slight and yet sincere. It's odd to see how easily Castiel reaches out to others now. He didn't used to be that way, being very naturally reserved and having an internal strength he relied upon. It's like Castiel realizes he's not that strong anymore, and needs the help, even though he'll say so little against Winchester or his captivity. Or perhaps reaching out for help is something Winchester taught him, as horrific as that thought is.

"You might think me paranoid," Morgan begins, slouching in his seat, "but I think Castiel is hiding something."

Hotchner puts his pen down. "Can you explain that?"

Morgan shakes his head, tapping his chair arm. Then he thinks about a moment longer and says, "He said, and I quote, 'I don't want to say them, but I should because I was an FBI agent and I know it's the right thing to do.'"

Hotchner breathes for a moment. "Balthazar called me today about Castiel's breakdown. He said that Castiel felt responsible for his sexual relationship with Dean, and that he said something about how he loves Dean, no matter how twisted that fact is."

Morgan grimaces. "That's not good."

"No. And that's just what Castiel has let slip. He's been very careful about what he does and doesn't say."

"Castiel's a smart one," and would make a hell of an opponent, "but what his goal? He doesn't have a problem saying that he's glad he's free, and has agreed to all our precautions so far."

"He's protecting Dean, and by extension those Dean knows, including this Charlie person. I think he revealed more than he meant to in that phone call, six months into his imprisonment. 'I want to go home, but you can't hurt Dean.'" Hotchner frowns deeply. "But the thing that disturbs me the most is that I don't know why."

"Stockholm Syndrome? He did say he loved Winchester in some way."

"That will fade with time, if that's it. But if it were that easy, I think he would have lied about how much he knew to begin with. All of what he's given us will have real potential to lead us to Winchester. And he specifically phrased it 'I was an FBI agent' when he explained his motivation. He wants to return to work. I truly believe that, and that's why he's been as honest as he has been."

"What do you think Winchester has over him? Is it just an emotional hold, or something more?" Morgan asks.

"It's not safety, or not primarily," Hotchner muses. "If it were, the safehouse and Balthazar's presence here would indicate he could tell us. And he knows better than anyone that his best safety is for us to capture Dean."

"Could there be a third party he fears?"

"Possibly." Hotchner looks at him. "You said he wanted to leave the safehouse and be on his own?"

Morgan nods.

"Let's do that. But we'll keep an eye on him."

"We can't bring him in," Morgan reminds him. "I promised him, Hotch. And I meant that promise."

Hotchner nods this time. "I understand. And I agree. Another imprisonment, no matter how well-intentioned, is the last thing he needs." He doesn't apologize; Morgan doesn't doubt that Hotchner still believes that his actions on the day of Castiel's returns were justified. There was no way for any of them to know Castiel's mental state and how safe it would be to leave Castiel alone at any point.

"I hate to say this, but you should also tell his brother not to tell us personal details that Castiel admits to him privately. At least, not without Castiel's permission. I can see that backfiring later, no matter how confused Balthazar is about Castiel's recovery." Morgan pauses. "What about the red-headed woman that appeared in the supermax before Winchester's disappearance? I can investigate that further."

"Do it."

* * *

Most of Castiel's belongings are in his new apartment; there's a pile of boxes sitting in the living room. Balthazar had refused to move any of Castiel's things during Castiel's captivity, but it was fairly easy for his friends to box up, since his largest possession was his collection of books. They're heavy, but not hard to pack. Castiel sits in front of them, tracing the neat writing that tells him the contents of each box.

This is Castiel's former life. Every physical object that mattered.

Penelope created several layers of security and protection around Castiel's identity, and the new apartment isn't under his own name. He has a new checking account, full of his own money, and new credit cards. It solves the problem of Dean searching public records, so now Castiel just has to figure out how to prevent Dean from finding him using magic or Anna.

Castiel gets up and walks to what is essentially the guest bedroom, though Balthazar has set up camp there. Unlike Castiel's bedroom, there's no master bath, but Balthazar insisted that Castiel take that one. Balthazar is sitting on the mattress, which is on the floor because there was a mix up somewhere and a bed frame wasn't delivered, and typing on his laptop. Castiel knocks on the open door.

"Hey, Cassie," Balthazar says with a bright smile. "You okay?"

Castiel nods. "What are you up to?"

"Emailing work," Balthazar explains. "The entire school knows about you, you know. And the administration has been really supportive. I've still got five weeks of vacation time left."

Castiel considers that. "Do you know what happened to my laptop, my phone, all of that?"

"The FBI confiscated it," Balthazar says.

Of course. That makes sense. Penelope would have been looking for not just anything Castiel doing or communicating, but also checking to see if his stalker was tracking him digitally. "Can I borrow yours?"

Balthazar looks at him for a moment, searching his face for something. Motive? "Sure. Let me finish this up?"

Castiel shifts on his feet. "I can make scrambled eggs for breakfast, if you want."

"Sounds good," Balthazar says with another blinding smile.

The kitchen is already well-stocked. Castiel takes out the eggs, finds a frying pan, and then stares at the items. He used to make scrambled eggs for himself all the time, every weekend when he didn't have coffee and donuts at the office to subsist on. He had a particular way of doing it to make soft eggs that melted like butter in his mouth. But as he stares at the egg carton, he realizes he's forgotten how he did it.

What was the heat set to? Did he put milk in? How many eggs did he use?

Right. He needs a bowl. And a fork. He finds those, lays them out. He cracks the eggs and then tries to remember how he seasoned them. Something green and dried, that much he remembers. He opens the spice cabinet and stares at it. Oregano? Parsley? Dill? He hesitantly reaches for the last, that name sounding familiar, and puts a dash of it into the eggs. Yes. That looks right. Salt and pepper.

He pours the raw eggs into the pan and then touches the burner dial for the gas stove top. He turns it all the way until it clicks and the flame appears, then lowers it. Halfway? That seems safe. Medium temperature.

Wait, he needs a spatula. That commences another search, though he finds it eventually. By the time he turns the scrambled eggs over, they're slightly browned, and he frowns.

"They'll taste good anyway," Balthazar offers, startling him.

Castiel looks up. Balthazar is giving him a soft, concerned look, and Castiel wonders how long he was standing there, watching Castiel flounder to do something as simple as make eggs.

"If you like burned eggs, I suppose," Castiel says, turning away. He feels his shoulders hunch in. He wants to hide, feeling embarrassed.

"Hey," Balthazar says, voice louder as he comes closer, "I love them. You made them. Do you know how many times I never thought I'd see you burn eggs again? I'd eat them if they were black."

"I might test that."

Balthazar laughs. "You were never one for petty revenge," he says, walking up to the stove and watching Castiel turn the eggs again. "Way too noble." He waits for Castiel to look at him again, and then sweeps Castiel up into a hug. "I'm glad you're here," he whispers into Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel swallows around a dry throat. "Me, too."

Balthazar releases him and turns off the burner. "Please, no blackened eggs."

* * *

Castiel gives Balthazar a task: to unpack the books and place them in bookcases. It will take his brother at least an hour, and that gives Castiel enough time to look around on the internet uninterrupted. He sets himself up on the couch with a wall to his back so Balthazar can't come up on him unexpectedly. He doesn't have to worry about the BAU – all of them are home for now, with a couple of agents outside the apartment on Hotchner's insistence. Castiel doesn't think they'd be able to stop Dean, if Dean found him, but it's a nice thought. At least he doesn't have to worry that Dean would actually hurt the agents, the way Hotchner no doubt would. Dean wouldn't do that.

Dean is a lot of things, would _do_ a lot of things, but he doesn't kill the innocent.

Castiel is no Penelope Garcia, but he knows how to use the special functions of search engines and he has a good idea of what he's looking for and how to tell what is and isn't genuine information. The library in the bunker was probably one of the best magical libraries in the world, and while Castiel was prohibited by Dean from reading much about spellwork, he's seen it referenced often enough in the texts he did read that he knows how it works.

Hex bags. He needs hex bags.

Twenty minutes later, he has a mental list of items he needs. After watching Balthazar huff and puff his way through Castiel's book collection for a minute – he seems sufficiently distracted – he grabs his wallet with his new credit cards and begins making purchases. He hides a lot of the stranger stuff in orders with related things, like putting wormwood with other herbal medicines. There's odd items that he'd never be able to explain if someone saw his bill, but Castiel is more worried about Dean than the FBI, at least for the moment. And he won't be able to go somewhere in public by himself for a few weeks, and likely not until Balthazar is forced to return to work, so he can't use cash.

"Have you actually read all of these?" Balthazar asks.

"Yes," Castiel says. "All of them."

"I don't know how you'd even have time for that," Balthazar says, and then freezes. "Um … sorry. I didn't mean … I was referring to when you were working." Balthazar winces.

"It's okay, Bal. I read a lot in the bunker, yes. Dean bought me all kinds of books." Except those with spells. "And the bunker had a library."

Balthazar frowns, as he tends to do on the rare occasions Castiel brings Dean up, but doesn't comment.

Castiel returns to his angel sigil search that he began in the hospital. He didn't have the opportunity to defend himself in the safehouse, but here, here he can set up everything. He already found the banishing sigil that he'd seen in the bunker's library, and he finds boundary sigils as well. They all look the enochian he saw in the bunker's books, or at least derivative of it. And last of all, on a website he almost dismissed as being done by amateurs, he finds a large, complicated sigil purported to hide the wearer from angels entirely.

After a moment of hesitation, Castiel emails the picture to himself. A sharpie will do in the short term, but maybe a tattoo will work?

Next he buys a number of random Ansel Adams photography to put on the walls. The prints are large, which is exactly what Castiel needs, and the style is similar enough to Castiel's real taste that he doesn't think his brother or his team will question the sudden presence of artwork all that much. Lastly, he buys paint. A nice taupe and a true white.

"Oh, fuck," Balthazar says, arching his back until it cracks. "So many damn books."

Castiel wipes the browser history and smiles at Balthazar. "Want some help?"

* * *

Castiel wakes up three mornings later with an erection. He woke up naturally, something he's done a lot in the week he's been free, and it's different enough from Dean's casual wakeups (either with noise, when he gets up before Castiel, or later with breakfast) that he's still adjusting. For some reason, that this would eventually happen didn't ever occur to him. He hasn't masturbated once since his escape.

He throws back the covers and stares at the tent in his boxers. He should … do something. Take a cold shower? That's not entirely healthy. Lots of men masturbate in the shower, taking care of morning wood.

It's not something he did when he lived with Dean. When Dean was his captor. In the first few months of captivity, he'd done it two or three times when he relaxed enough in the shower, but the rest of the time his own stress killed his sex drive. He remembers the first time Dean gave him a blowjob, how soft he was to start with. Even those random sexual encounters didn't really change his lack of interest, despite how pleasurable they were. At least not at first.

Then he started kissing Dean back.

Tense enough to hurt, Castiel gets out of bed and starts the shower before slipping off his boxers, eyeing his half-hard cock. He curls his hand around it, and the sense-memory of Dean doing the same thing is so incredibly strong that he flinches.

He steps into the shower, the water already nice and hot. He washes his hair, and then, very reluctantly, the rest of his body. His hands skimming his nipples makes his cock twitch and harden a little further. Turning around to let the water pound on his back and ass makes him think of Dean spreading his legs and pushing his hard cock into Castiel, driving deep and hitting his prostrate.

His cock curves upward, fully hard.

His body has gotten used to regular sex. Since Dean didn't leave for hunts longer than a couple of days, that was the longest Castiel went without intercourse. Dean's own sex drive was very high, and they had sex almost every day.

Biting his lip, he strokes his cock once. And in his head, he sees Dean doing it. He sees Dean kneeling in the shower, water droplets falling off his eyelashes as he looks up at Castiel with those intensely green eyes. He imagines Dean taking his cock in his mouth, sucking on the tip hard, then taking in the whole length.

Should he really be masturbating to the thought of his captor?

Shame curls up in his chest, hurting, and his hand falls from his cock. He's already admitted to Balthazar that he let Dean have him in every way – his mouth, his ass, and all willingly – and he knows at the time he thought they were only lovers, but there's nothing 'only' about it, not when the cuff on his ankle was a weight he carried every moment, through every orgasm. And yet, Dean pleasured him in ways none of his other lovers ever had, and Castiel learned to love everything Dean did to him.

Dean trained him to like anal sex. He knows that. Pairing fingering with the best tricks, the best orgasms – Castiel's not stupid. It worked, and at least partially because at some point Castiel decided it didn't matter. But it turned him on, to know that Dean wanted him that much. Filled his cock. Dean wanted him beyond all sense of morality.

Was anything he felt for Dean real?

Even if anyone that Castiel knows knew that Dean is only guilty of kidnapping – of his crimes against Castiel – they would think this is sick. Balthazar would, at least. He doesn't even want to think about the BAU contemplating his 'rape' in detail, knowing about this. No doubt the therapist will want to know, eventually. The FBI will have told him or her that Castiel is a rape victim, and how can Castiel explain that he doesn't feel like a rape victim? That he feels responsible, because he consented? And his consent meant something – Dean would respect a no. Yes, the situation placed stress on Castiel's mind, but he knew that. He knew.

He was the one to walk into a bathroom much like this one, and kneel, and suck Dean's cock.

His cock is still hard, still straining. Castiel tries to blank his mind and stroke himself, but after a few seconds he thinks of Dean. Sex with Dean. He stops and starts five times, tears gathering in his eyes. If he jerks off to the thought of being with Dean now, does that mean he still wants this with Dean? Even if it would mean his captivity?

Fuck. He doesn't know what to think.

He turns the shower water to ice cold. It makes him shudder, but successfully kills his erection. He stares down at his limp, cold cock, and feels relief.

He still feels shaky when he exits the bathroom, in a pair of sweatpants, a shirt and a sweat-shirt on top, like he can bundle his own body away. Balthazar is the living room, staring at the few remaining boxes of Castiel's things, then at the huge boxes of all the items Castiel put on rush order. He seems a bit perturbed by the quantity. He looks up when Castiel enters, smiling. Then he frowns. "Cassie, are you okay? You look kinda pale."

"I'm fine."

"Want some orange juice?" Balthazar asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "I have a craving for Chinese food. Could you go to that place across town? I want their pad thai."

"For breakfast?" Balthazar asks skeptically.

"It's a free country," Castiel says, spreading his hands.

"Cute," Balthazar says, but he relaxes. "You sure you'll be okay alone here? There's two agents outside, but …"

"I'll be fine, Bal." He pauses. "Unless you want me to go out and get –"

"No! I'll go do it." Balthazar points at him. "But you better be thankful."

Castiel smiles. "Thank you, Balthazar."

Five minutes later, Castiel is alone in his apartment. He doesn't waste any time.

He grabs scissors to open the boxes, and the framed pictures. He tests how space he'll have by placing the pictures on the wall and then marking it with a small dot with a pencil. Then he grabs the white paint – which is very white, almost blue in color – and pulls up images of the sigils that prevent angel entry and disguise a location. The super-white paint is still visible against the off-white that's the apartment's default, and he figures the contrast is high enough for the sigil to be effective, while not being completely obvious if someone takes a picture off the wall. He paints the symbols in thin lines, with as little paint as possible so it will dry quickly, while making sure each symbol has no rough edges or missing connections.

He can only hope that Anna has been too busy to respond to Dean's prayers, like she's been in the past. If she's already found him, he's screwed, but if the pattern holds, then by the time she starts looking on Dean's behalf, Castiel will be invisible.

He grabs a hammer and nails, and hangs the pictures over the sigils.

Second, he goes through the spell ingredients and creates hex bags. He got two bag sizes, one to hold the hex ingredients and one to hold the hex bag plus some dried flowers and other scents to disguise the presence of the hex bag. He makes seven, one for each bedroom, one for the bathroom, one for the kitchen, one for the living room, one to hide in Balthazar's things, and one to carry in a messenger bag with him.

Castiel always kept two overnight bags wherever he went, for work, so he doesn't think it will be unusual to carry a messenger bag with a laptop (also newly bought) and some extra clothing. He can come up with some bullshit explanation if Morgan or any of the others actually asks.

The black and white photography is striking on the walls. The hex bags are in every room.

Castiel is safe.

He kneels on the floor, just breathing, letting the fact that no one should be able to find him soak in. The relief he feels is incredibly powerful, matched only by the first time he saw his brother in eighteen months.

Twenty minutes later, Balthazar returns with steaming hot food, and Castiel greets him with a smile that for once does not hide stress.

* * *

"Okay, Cassie, you ready?"

Castiel shouts through the door, "Five minutes!" He took a long hot shower with a freezingly cold end, and his fingers are numb as he buttons up his shirt. He pulls on jeans and socks, along with a heavy, black sweatshirt, and then stuff his feet into sneakers. He checks that the hex bag is in his messenger bag, and then slings it over his shoulder and exits the room.

Balthazar is frowning at the kitchen table. He picks up a hex bag Castiel had placed in a decorative cup. "What the hell is this?"

"Potpourri." Castiel grabs his wallet and stuffs it into his jeans.

Balthazar slowly looks at Castiel. "Potpourri. Potpourri? Really?"

"I'm on a decorating kick," Castiel says defensively.

"Okay, okay." Pause. "It doesn't smell very good."

Castiel snatches it out of Balthazar's hands and places it back on the table. "Well, I like it."

"Okay, weirdo."

Castiel smiles despite himself. "At least it's not pink."

Balthazar bursts out laughing. "I've got a pink scarf waiting for you in my home. Forgot to bring it."

"I could do without another pink addition to the back of my closet anyway," Castiel replies. He swallows nervously, feeling the stress finally start to get to him despite Balthazar's banter. "I'm ready to go."

Balthazar smiles at him, a little pained. "I hear therapy isn't so bad. Just lots of talking."

And lying. "I know."

Balthazar drives, of course. Castiel's driver's license actually expired when he was gone, and the DMV is still processing it with his fake address. Castiel probably wouldn't be able to drive anyway, since he finds most of the experience of being driven overstimulating. It's hard for him to keep track of everything going on, and driving is multi-tasking. He'll probably have to have Balthazar bring him to an empty parking lot and start over. But asking for that would be humiliating, and Balthazar is eager to be overprotective, so passenger seat it is. It's not Castiel's old car, either, which Balthazar sold shortly after Castiel came back, but another one that's a model a few years newer.

The therapist's office is in a small building snug between two bigger ones. They have to park a good distance way, as the area is a transition between urban and suburban. Balthazar hovers the entire walk over and doesn't relax until they're in the building. He even puts himself between Castiel and a random person in the elevator.

Somewhat irritated, Castiel makes sure to stride forward so Balthazar can't speak to the receptionist first.

"10:30?" Castiel asks. "Novak."

The receptionist types a couple of times, looks up and smiles. "She'll be out in five minutes."

Castiel sits down on the couch that dominates the small seating area. It's very – homey. All old wood and real paintings, with a blue flower theme. He taps his knee as he bounces it, nervousness overcoming his natural stillness.

"Do you want me to –"

"No," Castiel says.

Balthazar frowns, but subsides. "I'll wait here, then."

Castiel eyes him. "I'm sure she'll get you if need be."

"Yeah, Cassie, I know. I just worry." Balthazar looks at the doorway. "You're still so …"

Castiel waits, but Balthazar doesn't finish. Perhaps he doesn't want to know how Balthazar would finish that sentence.

The door to the therapist's office opens and an old woman – mid-sixties, if he had to guess – peeks out. Her gray hair is pulled back into a loose bun, and she's actually wearing a grandma sweater. "Castiel?" she asks, smiling kindly.

Castiel stands and she motions him in.

Her office is an extension of the waiting room. It's in even cooler blues, almost gray. There's a couple of comfortable, padded chairs facing each other, along with some other chairs scattered around the room. Bookcases line most of the walls, and are filled with psychology texts.

"Hello, Castiel," she says, and offers him her hand. "I'm Dr. Katz."

Castiel musters up a smile, though he actually wants to run out of the room, and briefly shakes her hand. She might look like someone's grandmother, but for him she's an obstacle at best. "Hello."

She deliberately waits for him to select a side to sit, and then picks the other. She waits a moment for him to speak, but when he doesn't, she begins, "I've spoken briefly to Agent Hotchner, and I've read your case file, as well as your FBI file. I hope this isn't an intrusion to you; it is necessary if I am to also serve the role of qualifying you as fit for duty. If you would prefer that I not reference anything I read and see me privately as a therapist, that's fine and I will abide by that."

Castiel shakes his head. "No, that's fine." He doesn't need to try lying to two therapists, one will be plenty. He knows she's here to help him, not make his life more difficult, but there's very little either of them can do about that. He's found therapy helpful in the past – he's had mandatory sessions after every shooting, and major injuries on duty – and he has nothing against it normally.

"Have you been in therapy before, Castiel?"

"Yes. After shootings, deaths in the line of duty, that sort of thing." Castiel considers her. "Mostly for me it was an exercise in self-awareness and consciously controlling the directions of my thoughts."

She nods. "Those are useful skills."

"As a victim of a crime … that's new," Castiel says wanly.

"Well, not for me," she says with a surprising sharpness to her smile. "And in a way, I think it isn't for you either. You haven't been a victim of a crime before, no, but you've experienced trauma most people don't, including being shot."

"Well, I suppose I was technically the victim of a shooting in that case," Castiel says wryly.

Dr. Katz smiles at him. "I was mugged once. I had to see my own therapist after that incident." She eyes him a moment longer, than asks, "What would you like to talk about, Castiel? Is there a specific issue you're dealing with right now that you'd like to discuss?"

"I – I don't know." Castiel looks away and has to force his body to relax back into the chair. He can feel his breath rate increasing. Where would he even begin? The terror he felt when Dean attacked him in his apartment? The slow realization that he wasn't going to escape? That Dean meant to hold him, possibly forever? Those moments seem so huge that words can't encapsulate them.

Dr. Katz seems to see his tension. "You know what, why don't we start by talking about the present. Tell me about your brother, and your team at the BAU. How has it been, seeing them again?"

"Uh, good." And stressful. "My brother has been … an incredible help to me. A comfort." That much at least is the absolute truth. "And the BAU – my team – they've been doing everything possible to keep me safe."

"I'm glad to hear you have so many friends to support you. That's really important with any recovery."

Castiel supposes that's true. And he's not exactly coping well as is. Can he trust her? He knows that she can't tell the FBI anything specific unless it threatens someone's life directly. But would she tell them he's not compos mentis if he spoke to her about his relationship with Dean, not in the context of rape? How far can he go safely? He can't discuss this with Bal or the team. He can't. But under confidentiality, perhaps it would be possible.

He once told Dean he didn't think it would be helpful to talk to his captor about his captivity. He's had no one to talk to about this.

"Castiel?" Dr. Katz interrupts his thoughts. "Are you all right?"

"How much stays confidential?"

"Everything that wouldn't lead me to believe your life or someone else's life is in direct danger. Even if you told me something that would affect your ability to do your job effectively, I couldn't pass on what that was, only that you weren't yet ready to return to work. Is that what you were asking?"

Castiel bites his lip. "I know that … everyone hates Dean what he did. But I don't hate him. I hate some of the things he did, but I know don't feel –" Castiel struggles for the words, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles are white, "the way people expect me to feel."

Dr. Katz speaks slow and evenly. There's a quality to her voice that is soothing, that reminds him of Balthazar in his brother's calmer moments. "There is no one true way to feel about trauma, Castiel. I mean that. Not hating Dean, or not wanting him harmed, is a perfectly normal thing for you to feel because it is what you feel. I won't judge you for anything you tell me. I'm here to help you, not to tell you what to feel. Of course, I want to bring you to healthy coping mechanisms – to keep your head above water – in the process."

Castiel carefully lets go of the chair's arms, trying to relax. "This will be hard for me to talk about."

"I know. That's okay, Castiel. I promise." Dr. Katz smiles at him, sympathy in her eyes. "Whenever you're ready."

Where to begin? Maybe the safest area is far from Dean, a way for him to feel out what she's going to think, what she's going to try to guide him towards. "You've read my file, the case. Everything the FBI knows about how I – how I was during my imprisonment. The phone call, the photos. Do you think I deserve this? To have so many people so –" Castiel pauses, can't quite make the words work. "They're concerned."

"Well, first off, I would say that everyone deserves to be cared for," Dr. Katz says, crossing her ankles as she contemplates him.

"Including Dean? Dean Winchester?" Castiel asks, unable to stop himself. "Because I do think he deserves to be cared for, and everyone I know would think that's fucked up for me to think."

Dr. Katz pauses, clearly trying to answer carefully. "Yes, I think everyone deserves help. But from Dean's history, he should get that in prison, where he and everyone else can be safe during that process."

Castiel closes his eyes. Dean is only guilty of his crimes against Castiel. Part of the reason Castiel left was for Dean's sake, because Dean was as trapped in the situation just as Castiel was. Would this woman accept that? Would anyone? He doesn't think so. They would sympathize, they would say the right words, but they'd think he was wrong. They'd think it a symptom of illness, while Castiel can't say it's anything less than a necessary act. For himself, but also for Dean.

Dean deserved such a better life than he was given.

He held Dean in his arms when Dean woke up screaming after a nightmare about hell, where he suffered unimaginable torment for forty years. He heard Dean beg in his sleep for Sam not to leave him. Now Dean is alone.

The local police didn't find Dean's body. There's the only comfort that Castiel has that Dean still lives. And Dean doesn't deserve to go to prison, not when he's given so much to the world. He hates that he has to hide from Dean, that he has to flee from a man he wants so desperately to respect.

But Castiel can't say that. Not now, not ever. He covers his face with his hands, willing himself not to cry. He has to – he has to do something, or truth he can't speak will spill out. "I – I blame myself. I don't think I deserve everyone to be doing all this for me, when … I don't deserve it."

"Why would you say that?"

"I gave up. Bal says there's nothing to forgive, but I gave them up," Castiel says slowly, hands lowering as he stares off at nothing. Remembering his time with Dean, the way it transformed from adversarial to moment after moment of an increasing intimacy, emotional and sexual. "And the thing is, I consciously chose that. It's not something that happened by accident. I chose to accept Dean into my life, and live with him as if he were my lover instead of my captor. I chose to allow Dean to give me comfort, to give me all my emotional needs, not just my physical ones." He looks at Dr. Katz, feeling cold. "Do you think that makes me weak?"

Dr. Kat presses a finger to her lower lip and stares at him intently. "Why did you choose that?"

"Because … because that's the only way I knew to survive with my mind intact." That was his choice at the time, even if he feels that his love for Dean became genuine and heartfelt.

Dr. Katz leans forward. "I'd say you succeeded. You're sitting here, talking to me. Your brother is through that door, waiting for you. And your team at the BAU is waiting for you to take back everything you lost. You survived eighteen months of captivity, Castiel."

Tears slip down Castiel's face, a humiliating breaking. He wipes them away immediately, embarrassed. He hardly knows this doctor. And this is the point, he knows this is the point of therapy, but having to go through it while knowing the secrets he must keep forces him into staying alert and to watching his words.

"Do you think your team would blame you for consciously choosing to survive?"

Castiel inhales with a hiccupping breath. _Nothing will ever make us lose respect for you_. That's what Reid whispered in his ear, less than a day after his escape.

"I don't think they would," Dr. Katz says gently, handing him a tissue box. He takes it numbly. "Do you?"

"They think I'm lying to them about Dean." They haven't said a word about it, but he feels it.

"Do you think that would make them care for your well being less?"

No. "No," Castiel finally admits.

Dr. Katz doesn't take it further, but Castiel can't pull himself together. He blindly grabs the tissues, but the tears won't stop coming. Over the past two and a half weeks, shame has been his almost constant companion. With Dean, he let go of all the expectations and worries out of the outside world, partially because he believed he would never see it again. What would be the point, when Castiel would never be responsible for what he agreed to? But now that he's escaped, he has to deal with everything he did as a captive. The fact that he gave up, the fact that he allowed himself to fall in love with his captor, the fact that Dean gave him such pleasure and joy, even while he was cuffed like an animal. Castiel chose the easy path.

And even now, he's trying to protect Dean. And no one will ever understand why.

But maybe Dr. Katz is right, and it doesn't matter if they understand. If they don't think of him less regardless.

Maybe this shame isn't even entirely about them. That it's really about him and Dean, and the relationship they had, and whether Castiel should allow himself to not regret it.

He looks up at Dr. Katz and tries to speak; fails.

"Would you like me to get your brother?" Dr. Katz asks.

Castiel silently nods.

Barely thirty seconds later, Balthazar is crouching before Castiel and throwing his arms around him, pulling Castiel's head to his shoulder. Castiel breathes in the faint smell of smoke, and under that Balthazar's overpriced shampoo. He doesn't know what to feel, or what to think.

But Castiel, for the first time, purposefully lets himself cry out the pain.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N** : At last!  
 **A/N 2** : To the reviewer who deleted her comment: I hope you're well. I wasn't ignoring your comment, I just reply in chunks to readers. I don't know ultimately what people will think of the ending, but I intend to make it as believable as possible given the psychology of the characters. If you're still reading, I hope you enjoy. :)  
Warnings: Discussion of dubious consent/nonconsensual sex, mention of canon child sexual abuse (Morgan), discussion of female original characters being raped.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

Dr. Katz's office, Castiel realizes, has a bluebird theme. In a weird way, it reminds him of his father's mother's house, which remained firmly in the thirties despite all attempts from various family members to change it. Dr. Katz went a slightly different route with her decoration, mixing in modern art with the pieces that fit into the late fifties. Castiel can't decide what it says about her. Even the seat he's in is a weird mix, very comfortable but also all modern lines. He kind of wants to hide in it, but it's not built that way.

"Should I start doing the crossword, or would you like to talk?"

Castiel looks away from the embellished mirror on the far wall. "Do you think it's possible for a kidnapping victim to truly feel something like love for his kidnapper?"

"In general …" Dr. Katz pauses. "In terms of specific instances … I don't know. I have the feeling you're trying to trap me into a generalized statement, but I can't do that. Maybe if you talked about Dean, I could help you discover the answer for yourself."

Castiel decides to stare at his hands.

"What was he like?" Dr. Katz asks.

"He wasn't violent."

Dr. Katz just nods. She doesn't object or side-eye him, the way Balthazar would. And although she's a psychologist, there's no sharp analyzing gaze either, the way he sometimes sees from the members of the BAU.

So little by little, Castiel tries to explain the person Dean is. It's hard, because there's so much he has to leave out of it – Dean's true history, the fight to save the world – so Castiel chooses the moments he experienced himself during his imprisonment. From the first smiles and hints of Dean's respect for him, the way he admired Castiel's work instead of hating him for it. He tries to explain that Dean always considered him a threat, a high-risk prisoner, not out of some hatred for law enforcement, but out of respect for Castiel's skills. It sounds weird, and he knows it would go totally against the BAU's analysis of Dean, but it's the truth. Dean never saw Castiel as his enemy.

Dean is the man who took every sign of friendship as a gift. He would thank Castiel for the smallest things, the tiniest hints of respect or care. In return, he tried to offer Castiel everything Castiel needed.

But as Castiel speaks, he knows the truth also spills out. Not about the monsters or the supernatural veil upon the world, but the obsessive interest Dean had in Castiel. The sexual interest. The subtle ways Dean placed pressure on Castiel to cooperate, from their first deal to share a bed to the praise Dean would heap on him when Castiel would consent to a touch. "The first time we had sex, that he – that he came on me, he held me afterwards and kept telling me how good I did, how beautiful I was."

Dr. Katz just nods, expression open and listening. But in that non-judgment, something in Castiel is able to admit that that behavior was basically grooming, even if Dean didn't intend it that way.

Dean made it seem inevitable that they would become lovers. He said repeatedly he didn't expect it, that he would respect Castiel saying no, but the moment Castiel weakened he would move in to caress the side of Castiel's face, to place his hand on the small of Castiel's back while walking him up the stairs. "But I knew," Castiel tries to explain. "I knew what he was doing. I don't have Ph.D in psychology like you do, but I understand the pressures of behavioral control."

Dr. Katz says, "I know you do. But knowing that someone is manipulating you psychologically doesn't necessarily de-power the method."

"But doesn't it make me responsible? I was consciously aware of it. I could have fought it harder."

"We all have a breaking point, Castiel. It's not shameful when we reach it."

"I didn't break, not like that. Not then. I – I realized what was happening and decided to go with it anyway." Castiel looks away, and bites his hand hard enough to hurt. "I mean I – I guess I decided to. I know I did eventually, but in the beginning I was still so determined to escape. But I still let him – I let him do things. To me. Before that. Like – well, what I said earlier."

Dr. Katz waits.

"I don't have the faintest idea why I let it happen. Why I kissed him back those first few times. I mean after, I get it. Comfort. Security. Pleasure. I told him yes. But why in the beginning?"

Dr. Katz tilts her head, a lock of gray hair falling into her eyes. She swipes it out of the way, taking the opportunity to look at Castiel closely. "I think that if we can pinpoint the reason, a lot of what you feel will fall into place."

"What do you mean?"

"Imagine this is a case, Castiel. If a victim of kidnapping told you this exact same story. What would you tell her?"

Castiel frowns. "But this isn't like other cases. Not like cases I've been on. Dean wasn't –"

"Bear with me. Go through it in your head. No situation is going to be identical to another's, but you're a profiler. You know better than most that people fall into patterns, consciously or not." Dr. Katz raises her eyebrows.

Castiel can do this. He tries to divorce himself from the specific memories of Dean and make a scenario in his head. Like a practice profile. A woman – most victims of these kinds of crimes are women – who is kidnapped by someone who claims to love her. He treats her kindly, for the most part, but isolates her and imprisons her while asking for increasing intimacy. "She … was dependent on him for everything. An unconscious desire to please, to survive, and to be comforted. To be rewarded, after weeks of isolation. The human need for social interaction and physical contact is strong and will override even the basic instincts of survival, like someone lost for months in a forest going for the first sign of human activity, even not knowing if the person is friend or foe."

"Does that fit you, Castiel?"

Castiel covers his eyes, eyes dry. When he has control of himself again, he does his best to give Dr. Katz an even look.

Dr. Katz isn't to be baited, though. She shifts, asking, "Then let me ask you a question: you consented verbally to Dean for sexual interaction, correct?"

Castiel nods, shame curling up in his chest like an old friend.

"Were you psychologically capable of consent?"

Castiel stares at her.

"You know that we have laws around the ability to consent, not just the presence of consent. We don't assign the ability to consent to sex until sixteen or older, depending on the state. Intelligence quotia and other psychological issues also play into it. You know that. If someone has been brainwashed into accepting their fate, does their consent to that fate mean anything, morally or legally?"

"No," Castiel whispers, but he's not sure if he's agreeing with her or denying her words.

He's not sure he wants to know the answer one way or another. In the beginning, Castiel told Dean the same thing – that his consent was meaningless if given while captive. He referred not specifically to sexual activity back then, but joining Dean as a partner, since that was Dean's overall goal. But it holds, doesn't it? For the rest? He shouted that at Dean, three months into his imprisonment. When did he forget that?

"You asked me if loving your kidnapper is possible. But the question of whether you love him – and even if you do – doesn't excuse anything Dean did or what you suffered. And I think you feel that, Castiel. That's why you can't explain to me why you don't hate him, and yet you feel so torn." Dr. Katz lets him see a hint of grief in her eyes. For him. "Even if you love him, it's okay to recognize how much he hurt you. And that he took something from you against your will."

"But he didn't hold me down or –" Castiel begins, automatically searching for a way to deny what she's saying.

"Could you consent?" Dr. Katz asks again. "Were you capable of giving it in that situation?"

"I don't fucking know!" Castiel explodes, standing up.

Dr. Katz folds her hands in her lap, the ultimate physical expression of calm. "Okay. That's perfectly all right, Castiel. But do you understand why I was asking the question? You feel conflicted about Dean, could that be why?"

Castiel swallows and sits back down, resisting the urge to find something and throw it. He's an adult, not a tantruming child. "Could we change the subject?"

"Of course. What would you like to talk about?"

Castiel is silent for almost two full minutes. "I've told you a lot about Dean, over the past forty-five minutes. Do you think he loved me?"

Dr. Katz frowns for the first time. "I'm not sure I can answer that."

"Can I get a theory, then?" Castiel asks.

"You must understand, as a psychologist I would never diagnose someone without meeting them and evaluating them personally," Dr. Katz begins. "But it does sound that through the depths of some mental illness, and in some twisted way, Dean did love you. But that doesn't mean anything he did to you was right, or that you owe him anything. He committed crimes against you that under our system of law, he's responsible for. And personally, I believe he's responsible morally speaking as well."

And he is. Castiel knows that. But the rest of the crimes heaped on Dean's record aren't his. He can't say that, of course. He knows Dr. Katz well enough now – this is their third session, they spent the second mostly getting to know one another – that she wouldn't think he was necessarily crazy for believing in Dean's innocence, but she would eventually ask questions he wouldn't be capable of answering truthfully. She's flexible, but she's not flexible enough to think that Dean Winchester being Michael the archangel's vessel is anything other than pure, psychotic fantasy.

"He was desperate," Castiel finally says.

"So were you."

Castiel suddenly laughs. It takes him thirty seconds to control it, and he's not even sure where it came from. "I'm – I'm sorry. I don't know what that was."

"Don't worry about it," Dr. Katz says, smiling gently. "We only have about five more minutes, so I want to get a few questions out of the way. I think you're doing well, all considering, but I still need to ask, all right?"

Castiel nods.

"Have you harmed yourself or thought about harming yourself?" she asks. It's the first time she's brought up, and for some reason, Castiel is surprised. But perhaps she didn't ask earlier for a reason; it's not standard when dealing with someone psychologically fragile with a history of self-harm – which Castiel does have now, even if only written in the presence of scars and Dean's testimony – and he wonders if that was her call or advice from Hotchner or the team. He knows she's not communicating with them now, but she could have gotten anything along with his case file.

"No, to both."

"No suicidal thoughts? Intent to carry out a plan?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No."

"I'm glad to hear that," she asks, picking up her small notepad and writing on it. "And since you are a profiler, I'm sure you're curious why I didn't ask you that before."

"Yes, I have to admit I am."

"I didn't think you would react well to it, though I don't think you would have shown that to me," Dr. Katz says with a wry smile. "Castiel, I do believe you a very strong person, and I think you'd like to be seen that way by others. And that's okay. Just know that I'm here for you for whenever or if ever you're not."

Castiel doesn't know what to say, so he eventually just nods. "All right."

"If there's nothing else, I'll see you on Thursday."

Balthazar is in the waiting room, reading a magazine with his elbow on his bouncing knee. Castiel doesn't even know how he's reading when he's jostling the magazine like that, but he's apparently invested in something in Cosmopolitan. He waits near the doorway to Dr. Katz's office for a second, then strides forward and asks, "Sex tips? I didn't think you needed those. Haven't had a good orgy lately?"

"Oh be quiet." Balthazar throws the magazine onto a side table, standing up and stretching. "How are you doing?"

Castiel hesitates, then says, "Good." And it's mostly truthful. He's not a mess at least, which is a huge improvement from his first session. He's seeing her twice a week for the foreseeable future, and being a mess after each of those would kill his mood for a significant portion of each week.

"In the mood for some pizza, then?"

* * *

Castiel dreams.

It's a mish-mash of memory and fantasy. He and Dean are in bed together, and the room flickers around them from his old apartment to his room in the bunker. Dean's hands on his naked body are hot, sliding down his back and gripping his hips as Dean moves between Castiel's legs, his cock sliding up against Castiel's, equally aroused. They're kissing, but it's strangely light for the fact that Castiel can tell they're going to have sex. Like the first few times they kissed, when Dean was still uncertain of his welcome, of Castiel's reaction. But Castiel wants it. Oh, how he wants it.

Like magic, Dean's inside of him, thrusting hard. Pleasure curls up in Castiel's body, and he's begging Dean for more even as his words fail to become understandable, even though he's the one speaking them. But he knows he's begging for more, for Dean to fuck him harder, and Dean smiles down at him.

Then Castiel wakes up.

His apartment room is completely dark. Even the curtains are drawn closed, and only the red light of his alarm clock makes anything in the room more visible than vague shapes. But at the same time it's so recognizably not the bunker, or even Castiel's old apartment, which always had light coming through the curtains because there was a street lamp right outside of his window.

Castiel breathes hard, his cock hard between his legs. His boxers are slightly wet from the tip of his penis, and he pulls them off. His hand slowly slides over his erection as he listens for Balthazar, but it's totally silent. Castiel must have woken without crying out, as he has a few times in the past month.

He strokes himself. Once, then twice. He thinks back to the dream, to the incredible pleasure of being penetrated by Dean. To how familiar Dean's caresses were, to how well he knew how to drive Castiel to the heights of sexual pleasure. Shame tinges the thoughts, but his hand doesn't fall away from his cock.

Why not? He can do this. It's his own body, his own head.

He strokes himself again, harder and firmer, and he's so aroused from the dream that that's all it takes for him to reach orgasm.

Semen spills over his hand, along with relief. He bites his lip hard enough to hurt, breath slipping between his gritted teeth in an almost-whistle. His body, finally having gotten what it wants after weeks of Castiel denying himself, relaxes back into the bed.

He lays in bed for a few minutes, carefully letting his mind drift. Then he grabs the top sheet and cleans himself up and balls it up to throw it on the floor. He gets up and pads to the bathroom, flicking on the light. His hair is a mess, and his face is slightly pale, but when he looks at himself in the mirror – looks at himself in the eyes – he doesn't see that lost expression he thought he would. He sees anger.

Even here, even now, Dean controls him. Controls his sexuality.

He hasn't been able to look at anyone with sexual interest, not women – and he would have called himself straight before Dean – or men. And it's only been about five weeks since Castiel escaped, and only yesterday that the FBI took away the agents who were watching Castiel's apartment. It's still early in his recovery and logically Castiel knows that. But it grates on him that the things he would like to forget, that he would like to repress even if just for a little while, he can't.

He can't come without thinking about Dean. In some weird way, he feels like if he did find someone romantically or sexually interesting, he'd be cheating. But at the same time, he wishes he could at least be neutral and think of no one in particular during masturbation. Blank.

Castiel eyes the shower, but then walks to his closet. There were a fair number of boxes marked storage that Balthazar never went through, just putting them away. Castiel searches until he finds the dark brown one, and pulls off the top. Inside are smaller boxes, including a locked gun case. The key is in a nearby hidden compartment, and his fingers fumble when he first finds it. It's been so long since he used his privately-held gun, instead of his service weapon.

The gun case opens with a faint clunk, and Castiel looks at the Glock. He goes for the separate ammo box and fills the clip before putting it back into the gun with a reassuringly familiar click. He sets the gun down and stares at it for a moment.

He's free. He can't forget that.

He puts on jeans and a shirt, before putting on his old hip holster, from when he was a police detective. After a second of hesitation, he tucks the gun into it and pulls a coat over it, so he looks unarmed. Since he's on leave from the FBI instead of actually unemployed or on suspension, he can carry concealed without a permit, but it's best not to make people question if he has a gun in the first place.

He walks softly past Balthazar's room to the front door, and then slips out.

It's five in the morning, so it's still completely dark, though of course in the city that doesn't exactly mean it's dark. The sky is a dark blue, and the street lights cast a yellow glow on the wet pavement. The streets are almost empty. A sole car drives by leisurely.

Castiel is filled with the sense of how the large the world is.

It's with a light heart that he takes off east, chasing the sunrise. He walks faster than a stroll, like he's going somewhere, but in truth he's just seeing how far reality extends. He's testing the limits of his home, his city, his ability to just keep walking. Either Balthazar or the FBI has been sitting him for a month now, and while Castiel knows it's protectiveness, not possessiveness, it's worn on him just as much.

No one knows where he is. No one can tell him to stop.

Castiel stops at a park and finds a bench, still wet, but he sits down anyway. And he laughs. He leans back and stares up at the dark sky, able to find only a star or two, and rubs his smile.

After about ten minutes, restless energy fills him and urges him to keep moving, so he keeps walking, circling the park before continuing down an apartment block. A few lights are turning on here and there. It's a Tuesday, so presumably people are waking up for the commute to work. A jogger passes him, and ten minutes after that, a person walking their very large dog. It makes Castiel think of Aditi, and that he left her behind, but –

He can't regret it. He doesn't regret running from Dean. His feelings for Dean are incredibly complicated, and he doesn't know if he will ever be able to completely resolve them, but he doesn't regret being here.

Maybe his sexuality is still all tied up in Dean and how Dean trained him to enjoy sex, but even if Castiel doesn't get that part of his life back – at least not in the same shape it was when he left – that's okay. He can be happy with this, with walking down a street he doesn't recognize, independent and free to do as he wants. His gun is a warm, comforting weight. He's not helpless and chained to the floor.

And the BAU is waiting for him. His intense sense of purpose was misaligned by Dean, but he remembers now – saving people, hunting down those responsible for horrific crimes to ensure they can't do it again – those were what drove his life.

He wishes, though.

He wishes that his friends understood that Dean isn't a monster, or at least not the kind of monster they think he is. He wishes they understood that the supernatural is real, but honestly he would settle for an understanding that Castiel was traumatized by Dean, yes, but not in the ways they think. How else could they ever once again view him as an equal, if they don't understand what his captivity has made of him? He thought before that if they didn't judge him that their understanding wouldn't be necessary, but he's no longer convinced of that. The way that Balthazar steps so lightly around him, convinced of what Castiel has suffered, has disproved that.

He should talk to Dr. Katz about it. He should even talk to her about his sexual dysfunction, the shame that accompanies the slightest feeling of sexual pleasure. He knows she's only there to help him cope. That they all are.

Castiel turns west. Back to home, where Balthazar sleeps.

The sun is warm on his back by the time he reaches his apartment front door, and then he steps through. Balthazar is awake, and Castiel has an instant to think, Oh shit, and then Balthazar leaps from the table and stumbles over a chair that crashes to the floor before he's hugging Castiel.

"Tell me you just went for a walk," Balthazar says.

"I just went for a walk," Castiel says. "I'm fine, Bal, honestly. I just wanted to be free, you know?"

Balthazar nods into his shoulder. "Yeah, I figured since you took your keys. Gave me a heart attack, though." Balthazar withdraws to look Castiel in the eyes. "Leave a note next time, won't you?"

Castiel smiles, and there's no weight behind it. "I will, I promise."

Balthazar pokes Castiel's side and Castiel squirms away. "What's that?"

"My personal Glock," Castiel explains.

Balthazar blinks his icy blue eyes at him. "You went on a walk armed?" There's a pause, then Balthazar nods firmly. "Good. Shoot that fucker if you see him. For me, if nothing else."

Castiel laughs. "I'm not going to see him, Bal. He has no idea where I am, you know that. Relax. Shall I make breakfast?"

"No! No more black eggs, I have limits, little brother."

* * *

In the end, he decides not to mention his problems with his sex life, or the lack thereof. At least not yet. There's more important things to discuss with Dr. Katz than Castiel's ability to get himself off. He wants to untangle enough of his feelings about Dean and his captivity – he wants to recover enough of his old confidence – that she'll let him work. Plus, it's easier to focus on that, since he doesn't have to do the dance around the existence of the supernatural when he discusses his slowed reflexes, nightmares, or problems concentrating.

He's gotten a lot better just from being around Balthazar and his teammates. Unless they're on a case, one or two come by every evening. They've started speeding up their conversations, forcing Castiel to catch up and hold together multiple threads of conversation. Reid has been very good for that. They used to be able to talk for hours, bringing up things hours from before in attack and counterattack during arguments. Dean was able to keep Castiel fairly intellectually stimulated, but he's also not a genius.

Reid makes Castiel stretch. It feels good. Balthazar has started to complain that they make too many leaps for him to follow.

"How is your brother?" Dr. Katz asks, on their fifth session.

Castiel has actually begun to relax in this office. "Good. He's talking with the principal about extending his leave since it's been almost six weeks, but I'm thinking it may be time for him to go home."

"That's a big step," Dr. Katz says, with a raised eyebrow. "Are you ready to be alone for substantial amounts of time? I know you said that was one of the parts of your captivity you had the most trouble with."

"It's why Dean got me Aditi," Castiel admits. "But the difference is that if I don't want to be alone, I just have to – have to walk outside the door." Castiel smiles a bit. "Go to the coffee shop around the corner. Read at the local bookstore. Strike up a conversation with the person at the bus stop."

Dr. Katz smiles. "That's true. I'm glad you see that so clearly. Are you going to ask Balthazar not to stay?"

"I'm not sure yet. He's still very concerned about – well, everything." Castiel pauses ."In a way, it's stressful to have him around. He reacts to whatever I say that references my imprisonment, though he tries really hard to hide it. But if I talk about the books on magic I read, or the garden I was making, he just – he tenses up."

"I think that's understandable on his part, but I can see how that would be wearing. Have you discussed that with him?"

"No. There's no point. You don't know my brother, what he feels, he feels. He can't hide it or do anything about it but express it. Asking him to try is like trying to shove a genie back into a bottle."

Dr. Katz nods. "Okay."

"There's something else I wanted to talk about," Castiel admits finally.

Dr. Katz waits.

"It's about my teammates. I want them to understand what my captivity was like, even though I don't think they ever will. Or at least, I fear that. That if I can't explain what happened, what it did it to me, that they'll never see me as recovered. As an equal."

"Why don't you think they can understand, Castiel?"

Well, partially because he can't tell the whole truth. "Dean's behavior doesn't match his profile. And of course, I know that the BAU changes a profile whenever needed, it's not about being right with any of them. I know that. But I fear that … they'll just think I'm crazy. That I'm defending him not out of facts, out of actual events, but because I'm – fucked up or weak."

"Have you talked to them about your experience?"

Castiel shakes his head. "Not anything further than what they needed to pursue him." And they didn't ask. It's respect as much as anything else, Castiel knows, but do they want to hear it? All the miserable details, the unexplainable way that Castiel feels? "And I want them to understand, but what if it just fucks up things further?"

"Fuck things up how?" Dr. Katz asks.

Castiel shrugs. He can't put it into words. It's just a mess of horror and misunderstanding.

"Do you think they would judge you for it?" Dr. Katz presses.

Castiel shakes his head. She did manage to convince him that that particular fear is unfounded. "I said some … graphic things to my brother. He's never brought it up again, but sometimes I catch him looking at me like – like his heart is breaking."

"I'm sorry, Castiel. Have you spoken to Balthazar about that?"

"No." Castiel looks down at his hands. "But I don't want them to look at me like that. It's hard enough to see Bal do it."

"Castiel, you're aware that before you return to work, the FBI is going to ask you more questions? Not about your captivity per se, but any of the surrounding situations that could lead to Dean?"

It's an interesting tactic, instead of reassuring him she points out it will need to happen anyway. Dr. Katz, Castiel's found, seems to try to be unpredictable. But then, she is trying to treat someone who knows all the tricks people use to try to manipulate therapists and court appointed psychiatrists. It's not necessarily that she believes Castiel will lie on purpose, as much as he might use that knowledge unconsciously. "I understand that in order to be declared psychologically fit, I'm going to have to be able to act in a way conforming with FBI standards, including being fully debriefed."

"That's a very formal answer. How do you feel about that?"

Castiel sighs. "Terrified."

Dr. Katz actually smiles. "That's a very honest answer, and that's very good. What about it terrifies you?"

"Being exposed. Having all of that – everything that happened in an FBI file somewhere, that people can read."

"I'm sure your team can declare most of the file off-limits," Dr. Katz points out.

True enough.

"But the important thing is to work through your issues here. I'm not saying it needs done now, your recovery will come in its own time – I can tell you from experience everyone needs a different amount of time and care – but it's something to consider for the future. When do you want to think about it more in depth, I'd recommend talking to one of your friends in the BAU about it. Be honest. I think, based on what you've told me about them, that they'll support you and do their best to understand."

"You think it's that easy?"

"Easy? No. Not at all. But sometimes we have to stumble blindly through things, no matter how dearly we wish we could see the path ahead."

Castiel smiles wanly. "That's not what I was hoping to hear."

Dr. Katz spreads her hands in 'what can you do' gesture. "I'm a therapist, Castiel, and I have difficulty in some social situations. It's part of life. Of course, if you want to practice with me, I would be happy to help you, but since we've discussed Dean quite a bit, I don't think you'll find it very useful."

Castiel nods slowly. "I'll consider what you've said."

"That's all I can ever ask."

* * *

It's spring on the east coast.

The day is slightly chilly, not yet reaching the muggy heat so typical of summers. Castiel remembers it well, and it will be quite different from the summer Castiel had in Kansas. Not that Castiel isn't used to all kinds of weather regardless of the time of year, since the BAU travels all over the United States catching serial killers. Packing appropriate clothing for anywhere became quite the mastered challenge, for the year Castiel worked there.

Balthazar takes Castiel to a fairly local beach, picnic basket and determined expression in hand. Castiel's been sitting on the coarse sand for nearly twenty minutes, first watching the waves roll back and forth like nature's hypnosis, before he realized how tense Balthazar still is. So now he's watching Balthazar try to work up the courage to whatever he intends to say.

"Spill it," Castiel says finally.

Balthazar frowns at him. "Spill what?"

"Whatever you brought me here to discuss."

Balthazar sighs, tapping his leg. "My principal wants me to come back. He says I can take off time on an emergency basis, but they can't hold my teaching position forever."

Castiel thinks about that for a moment. "I think you should go."

"Cassie, you still need me –" Balthazar begins, expression irate.

"Of course I need you," Castiel interrupts, "but that doesn't mean I need you holding my hand for the next year. I need you, but I also need my independence."

Balthazar looks away, jaw clenched. Castiel hurt him with that.

"You've been … you were what I held onto to, Bal. You, more than anything, even the FBI. I love you, you know that," Castiel says gently.

Balthazar takes Castiel's hand, completely not caring how it would look to anyone else. "That's why I need to be here, for you."

Castiel places his hand on his brother's. "But that's also why I need my space. I want to retake my life, Bal. I want to live as I did before, not – not being afraid all the time. I don't want to give in, do you understand?"

Balthazar shakes his head, squinting. "Give in to me? What?"

"Dean took eighteen months from me. I don't want him to take anything else. From me, or from you. You're my brother, and I will always need you, but you love teaching. I love working for the FBI. Those two aren't going to mix now anymore than they did before. I want both of us to live our lives as we want to, not as – not according to what was forced on me. On both of us."

"Cassie … are you sure?" Balthazar asks, eyes dark with concern and worry. "I could quit, I could find another teaching job out here –"

"You hate the weather," Castiel reminds him.

"Oh shut up, the cold makes my bones creak. But that's not the point."

Castiel smiles at Balthazar. "No, it's not. Let me retake the life I chose to live."

Balthazar just looks at him for several long seconds. "But what if – something happens? I mean fuck, Cassie, you still have nightmares that wake me up, much less you. You still burn eggs, and no, smoothies aren't a perfect substitute. What happens if you need me for something else that neither of us can think of right now?"

"Then you're a three hour plane ride away," Castiel says. "You're a phone call away. Hell, you can spend weekends with me. But I'd like us both to return to normal."

Balthazar frowns at the ground, folding his arms. "Every weekend?"

"Every weekend."

Balthazar looks out at the sea. To Castiel's surprise, he doesn't speak for nearly ten minutes, just looking out at the blue waves with a pensive look on his face while he bites his fingernails. Finally, he looks at Castiel. He speaks slow and certain, darkness underlying his tone. "Promise me one thing."

"All right," Castiel says cautiously.

"If that fucker comes for you again, if it against all odds he finds you, you kill him if you have to. Promise me you'll take his life before you let him take you."

Castiel loses his breath. He's barely able to say, "Bal –"

"I know you don't hate him. The way you talk about him sometimes, it's almost – almost fond. But he's evil, Cassie. And he hurt you so bad. It's taken you weeks just to get used to having people around again, to talking to us, and you admitted that he raped you." Castiel didn't, but that's besides the point. He watches as Balthazar goes on, voice getting more and more heated. "That fucker hurt my little brother, the best man I've ever known, and he deserves to die for that." Balthazar pauses, searching Castiel's face. "You don't see it, but sometimes you flinch when people touch you. And every time we go outside, you look afraid."

Castiel stares at his hands, his heart pounding in his chest. Can he kill Dean? If he has to, to keep his freedom? Dean didn't commit most of the crimes the FBI wants him for, but the ones against Castiel – yes, he did those. Even if Dean wouldn't hurt him directly, Castiel would be justified with lethal force to prevent his own kidnapping.

And he doesn't want that.

He doesn't want to be a prisoner in the bunker, no matter how much he cares for Dean. He can't murder Dean in cold blood, but he can kill to defend himself. And he knows where Dean will end up, in heaven. Maybe Castiel will see him there someday, maybe not. And if Castiel killed him – Dean would understand. Dean's life is fucked up and always has been, and he would understand.

"Balthazar. I promise. I swear to you on your life, that I will kill him if I have to."

Balthazar throws his arms around Castiel, trembling and probably crying. Castiel clings to him, not caring that the beach is busy enough for others to see. "Okay, Cassie. Okay," Balthazar whispers into Castiel's ear. "We retake everything."

* * *

Castiel sits in the parking lot in front of the community center, shaking a little. It was strange to drive, though he's been on several practice driving sessions with Reid and Balthazar. It wasn't hard to get his license back, and he passed the driving test with ease, but it's still unfamiliar enough that he gets tense while driving. But at least Reid had the good sense – or understanding – not to comment at the jerkiness of Castiel's first drive since his kidnapping, when he ran over a curb.

Balthazar went home yesterday, or Castiel probably would have had Balthazar drive him.

That's not the only reason that Castiel is nervous, though. Dr. Katz brought up a support group fairly early on, really briefly. Castiel didn't think much of it at the time, but she brought it up again two sessions ago, with more serious intent that time. A friend of hers runs a support group for those who endured long-term captivity or imprisonment, mostly ones done with a sexual motive, though not exclusively.

Castiel talked to a support group like this nearly two years ago now, about a woman who attended their meetings who went missing. That he comes here as a private citizen, not law enforcement, is the weirdest kind of déjà vu.

He taps his steering wheel for a long minute, then gets out the car and locks it. He enters the community center and goes right. Only as he gets close does he begin to see a sign or two for the group.

He'd insisted, based on his own experience, that the group be okay with him coming in advance, simply because of the fact that he's a man. Most predatory kidnappings – the vast majority, in fact – are committed against women, and his presence might be startling or traumatizing. But a week later, Dr. Katz told him that the group had agreed to have him come.

He pauses before room #147, and knocks lightly before entering.

It's a small room, and there's ten chairs in a rough circle in the middle. Off to one side is a small catering table with a ton of donuts. There's seven women in the room, including an elderly woman with a nametag that reads Kirsten. Castiel is going to assume she's Dr. Katz's friend.

Kirsten waves at him. "Hello, Castiel! Come in. We're just getting some snacks before we start."

Feeling as awkward as he probably ever has in his entire life, Castiel skips the donuts and picks a chair far from anyone else. He wants to flee, and only the social expectation of how weird that would look stops him. Kirsten sits a seat away from him, smiling as she eats a powdered donut with relish. One by one, the other women take their seats. A dark haired woman actually chooses to sit next to Castiel, giving him a short, nervous smile as she does so.

"We ready to get started?" Kirsten asks.

There are murmurs of assent.

"Everyone, this is Castiel, who I told you about last week. Castiel, welcome to our support group."

Castiel dips his head. "Thank you."

A young woman with icy-pale blond hair says, "I'm Amy." She gives Castiel a slightly challenging look – unlike the others, she's practically exudes fire. The others all give their names after her, some looking awkward, one or two curiously reserved, and the rest slightly unnerved.

"Would anyone like to begin with an issue they've been having and would like some support for?" Kirsten asks.

Amy immediately raises her hand. "May I?"

Kirsten nods.

"I saw someone prowling around my house last week. I called 911, and after twenty minutes, they finally sent someone. They told me to lock my door. Lock my fucking door, like that fixes everything like magic." Amy exhales. "When that bastard took me and raped me, three years ago, I didn't lock my door. I forgot to lock my door. Afterwards, the police kept telling me to make sure my doors were locked, that I could prevented my assault if I'd just been more careful." She glares at Castiel, clearly familiar with the fact he's law enforcement.

For a long moment, Castiel doesn't know what to say. Then, "Is it okay if I make a comment?"

"Sure," she says shortly, folding her arms.

"The police tell you that just because taking precautions does sometimes help prevent crimes. Some criminals will give up if you put a few roadblocks in their way." Castiel looks down at his hands. "But some don't."

"And you?" she asks.

Castiel looks up, choosing his next words carefully. "I have two decades of martial arts training and law enforcement experience, six inches and seventy-five pounds on you."

She blinks.

"When I came home that day – the day I was kidnapped – I had a gun holstered to my hip. I did a quick check of my bedroom and guest room before I put my gun into a drawer." Castiel goes cold, remembering. His body feels half-numb, like saying these words puts him back there, in that moment where he lost control for a year and a half. "I went to the fridge, and that's when he came up behind me. He put his arm around my neck –" Castiel waves at where his jaw meets his neck, indicating where Dean's arm had squeezed, "and he dragged me backwards. I struggled and managed to knock away his needle, I tried to get my leg behind his so I could trip him, I tried to force him into a wall so I could get leverage, I tried to claw his eyes out." Castiel swallows, tears pricking his eyes. "My gun was fifteen feet away," he whispers, looking at Amy.

Amy looks down, eyes wet.

"He choked me until I lost consciousness. And he kept me prisoner for eighteen months." Castiel takes a deep breath. "It's not your fault that you were kidnapped and assaulted. I had every – _every_ advantage you don't. And I still lost. It's not your fault, whether or not you locked your door."

Voice trembling, Amy asks, "How did you get away? Did the police find you?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. He – my kidnapper – he left me alone without chaining me to the bed. I only got away," and his voices breaks a little, "because he thought I was too broken to run."

Jenny, a beautiful woman in her thirties, raises her hand, crying, and says, "Me, too. He'd raped me so many times that I'd gone practically catatonic. Went somewhere to get a beer and left me. I ran like hell."

"I'm sorry," Castiel says quietly to her.

"He's in prison for life," Jenny says, straightening even though her voice shakes. "And I'm still here."

"Thank you, Jenny," Kirsten says gently. "You're right. We're all still here."

The group goes quiet. Amy takes a tissue from the set of three boxes on a little table in the middle of the circle.

"Did they catch him?" Amy asks Castiel.

Castiel hesitates before shaking his head. "Dean – the man who kidnapped me – he's been wanted by the FBI for nearly a decade. I don't think it's very likely he'll be caught, or if he they do, he'll get away. He has before." Castiel stares at nothing for a moment before shaking himself out of it. "I was on his case. His FBI case. There was a murder investigation and we went there, and he told me later he saw me. That's when he decided to take me."

Shelly, who up to this point had been staring at the floor, looks up and says, "Wait. You got kidnapped by a criminal you were hunting?"

"Yes. And I had – I had no idea he was stalking me. He followed me for weeks and I didn't have a clue."

"Are you scared?" Shelly asks. "The guy who, well. They never caught him, either. Think he left the country, but I still …" She doesn't finish.

"Sometimes," Castiel admits. "I have to take a lot of precautions to hide where I live. If I go back to work, I'll have to take even more because, well, he knows where I work."

Shelly nods. "I know how that feels."

And she does, Castiel realizes. He wipes his eyes.

He gets pieces of the others' stories. Jenny got divorced after her attack. Samantha, another group member, was kidnapped for a year almost a decade ago, and still has nightmares. Her attacker died in a shoot-out with the police. Amy took up kickboxing and has various kinds of weapons hidden around her house, and that reminds Castiel of how he takes his gun everywhere now. There's an almost unspoken acknowledgement of how afraid they all are, even years after the crime. There's a silent understanding any time one of them brings up another way they struggle to cope, and Castiel has a similar one. He tells them about the burned eggs, and Jenny tells him that smoothies are better anyway.

But there's on discordant note, and that's that each of the evil men who attacked these women were in fact just that – evil.

And no matter how easy that would be, how easy it would fit into what people expect, Castiel can't think of Dean that way.

Amy asks if she can give him a hug on the way out. Castiel almost clings to her, to someone else who understands. Her arms around him are firm, strong enough to hold the world. That these women accepted him here after all the misery other men put them through touches him.

But he doesn't know if he'll ever come back here. There's still so much that's unsaid, so much that people don't know about his captivity with Dean. All the horrors, yes, but all the joyful moments, too. Castiel was at times happy. And yet, the uncertainty behind that – that he didn't choose to be there, that every happy moment was shadowed by the use of force – taints everything. He doesn't know what to hold onto. What to accept.

His team has the only hope of understanding.

Maybe it's time to talk.

* * *

Morgan's still at work when he gets Castiel's text. _Can you come over so we can talk?_ Nothing else. That the message is brief isn't unusual – that's Castiel – but specifically asking for company is new. Castiel has been mostly passive in accepting the companionship of his friends at the BAU. He never asks them to leave when they come by, never objects if they ask if they can. But he also doesn't reach out. Morgan hasn't been entirely certain what to think of it, even if Hotchner has been content to let Castiel recover at his own pace.

He begs off paperwork and slips out to his car.

Since the first couple of days since Castiel's escape, the team has coordinated caring for Castiel. It's not entirely normal, but when Hotchner took charge in that respect everyone agreed with it.

The FBI typically begins trauma recovery before the trauma ever takes place, by training all agents how to deal with symptoms in the immediate aftermath of a shock. After all, it's not unheard of for agents to be involved in large scale incidents like bombings and terrorist attacks, as well as smaller ones like a shootout with several suspects or coming across horrific crime scenes. The team would regularly work as defusers for each other because that would be one of the main traumas the team would experience commonly – defusing being like a short, peer-to-peer debrief that allows them all to talk through an experience without judgment, with others who experienced the same event.

According to the method that the FBI uses, small group sessions occur after that, with individual treatment with a therapist as symptoms require. They've all had to do it, even Morgan, who although he sees the value in psychology and therapy, has a difficult opening up to someone whose job is to listen to him. His friends have served that role far better.

Maybe that's why Castiel has come to him.

Castiel doesn't fit the usual regimen. Morgan supposes it's more like Castiel went deep undercover, than the short but shocking traumas that most FBI training prepares agents for. Hotchner organized them and ordered everyone not to ask too many questions of Castiel. So far, it's been working. Castiel has improved steadily. It's the small things that remind Morgan that Castiel isn't the same person who went missing nineteen months ago.

It's obvious in the way Castiel will suddenly stop speaking about a subject, as if he realizes he's straying too close to something he won't discuss. The weird reactions to apparently randomly incidents, that clearly remind him of his captivity. Castiel was never one to share, but now it's obvious how much he needs it, as well as how much he fears it.

Why the fear exists, though, neither Morgan nor Hotchner have been able to figure out, except that Castiel is deliberately keeping something a secret. And not out of shame; it's fear that drives him.

He knocks on Castiel's door. After a moment, he hears the two locks disengage and then Castiel opens the door with a slight smile.

Morgan lifts the two cold beers he bought on the way. "Ready to relax?"

Castiel's smile widens and he steps to the side to let Morgan in. "Been a long time since I had a beer," he says, taking one from Morgan. "Dean offered, but I didn't take him up on it for obvious reasons." He walks to the living room and settles on a couch, and Morgan follows to sit on a nearby armchair.

"Your brother doing okay?" Morgan asks.

"He's been calling me every three hours, but otherwise yes."

Morgan smiles. "Overprotective, huh?"

Castiel shrugs lightly. "I can see why." He opens the beer barehanded and throws the bottle cap at the trash. It doesn't miss.

Morgan takes the opportunity to get a better look at Castiel's apartment. The photography is still on the walls, as it has been since the first few days Castiel was here. It was an odd detail for Castiel to be so focused on – decorating, especially in a way he hasn't shown any interest in before – but once he got the initial items, he seems to have lost interest. All the boxes are gone, and the apartment actually looks well-lived in. There's several random pink items on the shelves, but Morgan is guessing Balthazar is responsible for those.

"So what did you want to talk about?" Morgan asks. "Coming back?"

Castiel dips his head. "Well, that too."

Morgan raises an eyebrow and takes a large swig of his beer. If nothing else, he can ask Castiel if he can stay because he can't drive, depending on how this goes.

"I know you haven't asked about – well, pretty much anything. Any of you, I mean."

"We wanted to wait until you were ready," Morgan says, putting his beer on the coffee table. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands relaxed. "Any time, man."

"I feel like –" Castiel pauses, looks down and then laughs a little. "Well, I spoke to my therapist about it. And I realized I did want you to understand. What it was really like, for me." He traces the edge of the beer bottle's top. "Bal being Bal, he went right ahead and just blundered on through what he thinks happened. That's why you caught us screaming at each other in the safe house."

Morgan keeps his body language open. "Tell me."

"I wish –" Castiel stops. He looks uncertain.

"Castiel, I'm not going to judge you for anything you say or did. Honestly."

"It wasn't how people think it was," Castiel says slowly. He bites his lip, then takes a sip of his beer. "Dean wasn't – he wasn't physically or emotionally abusive. He wouldn't let me leave and isolated me, and yes, that was psychologically abusive, but hurting me was never the point of kidnapping me." He says the last meeting Morgan's gaze.

"We obviously feared he would hurt you, yes," Morgan says when Castiel doesn't add anything else. Waiting for Morgan's reaction. 'Wouldn't let me leave' is also telling – Castiel has changed the terminology of his imprisonment in his own mind. "You know we caught Dean for a few weeks, right?"

Castiel nods. "He told me. Had to, really, he was gone so long. He never left me alone that long on purpose."

"We found a camera in his belongings, which included a video of you. Dean was recording you reading, and you threw a stuffed animal –"

Castiel smiles faintly, a strange emotion passing across his face. "I remember. Did that surprise you to see?"

Morgan nods. "Like you said, it's not what we predicted. But it did give us hope that you weren't as badly harmed as we had feared for so long." And he has two goals in telling Castiel of it – support, of course, but also confirmation that he trusts what Castiel is saying. That he believes Castiel. And he doesn't think Castiel will lie to him, or at least he will avoid it; if anything, if something untrue does come out, it will be because Castiel believes it to be truth. "Dean seemed very fond of you."

"He was," Castiel says with a brief curve of his lips that disappears almost instantly. "He wanted me to love him, and not out of fear. Anything I asked for, excepting my freedom, he gave me. He was very … focused on pleasing me. On making me happy." Castiel shrugs uncomfortably. "I know that his profile would say that he'd be like any other intimacy seeking stalker, and that my resistance would enrage him and cause him to lash out, but that never happened."

Their initial profile after Castiel's letter said just that. It's reassuring that Castiel can still view it objectively enough to accurately profile the situation. Still, with the combination of psychosis and emotional damage from his father, Morgan has a hard time believing it was that peaceful in Dean's home. "He never got angry at you?"

"I can count on one hand the times he got angry at me, and he never hit me in anger."

Interesting qualification. Dean never hit Castiel 'in anger,' which implies he did physically assault Castiel at some point, even if Castiel thinks it was justified on Dean's part. "But he did hit you."

Castiel puts the beer on the coffee with a thump and stands up. He wipes his mouth, and paces twice before answering. "Yes. He did."

Morgan waits.

Castiel hovers uncertainly before sitting down again and pulling up his knees. It's a very telling posture, defensive and small. "He beat me into submission. During my escape attempts." Castiel's gaze is distant. "The first one, I didn't get far. He grabbed my hair and slammed my head into the ground until I stopped fighting."

Morgan winces, but he has the feeling Castiel isn't done, so he doesn't speak.

"The second attempt I made, I got out of the bunker while he was gone. I even found a gun, though I didn't find any phones or vehicles I could use. I ran …" Castiel trails off, an echo of fear in his eyes. The echo of what he felt then, when he tried to escape and failed. "I ran, but he caught me. He bested me in every real fight we had." Castiel lifts his shirt, exposing a small scar on his abdomen that Morgan hadn't seen before. "I got this in a knife fight with him – not him, I landed wrong. Dean never used weapons. He feared hurting me in any kind of a permanent way."

"So it was practical of him?" Morgan asks, testing.

Castiel doesn't answer directly. "You know the weirdest element, though? After he would beat the shit out of me, he would comfort me."

A strange duality, and a hard one to psychologically handle. Also one of the hallmarks of causing Stockholm Syndrome, when a victim perceives the 'better' behavior as kindness, which is the beginning of the emotional entanglement that saps a victim's free will. "It's not an uncommon tactic, to confuse a victim that way."

"He didn't do it to confuse me," Castiel says. Not angry; almost like he's realizing it as he says it. "Dean's entire emotional makeup is composed of caring for others. His father, then Sam. He only saw worth in himself when he could take care of others. Sam's death destabilized Dean in a number of ways, but that's probably the one that had the most to do with my kidnapping."

"So his brother is dead, then? Do you know how he died?" Morgan asks. It seems a safe topic; he doesn't want to attack Castiel's belief that Dean cares for him. At least not directly.

Castiel nods. "Two years before Dean took me. An illness, though of course Dean didn't ascribe a disease as the cause."

"It sounds like you know Dean well."

Genuine amusement flares in Castiel's eyes. "Oh yes. I know Dean very well. Better than anyone alive, at this point. He wanted me to know him, even all the gory parts."

 _But would you use that knowledge to help us catch him?_ Morgan wonders. "But you don't know where he is?" Morgan finally asks, deciding to throw it out there.

Castiel shakes his head. "Dean and Sam shoved army men in the cooling vent in the Impala, and sometimes it still rattles. Dean lost his virginity in the backseat." Castiel pauses. "Rhonda Hurley." Then, "Dean had prank wars with Sam, including putting Nair in Sam's shampoo. When he was nine and Sam was five, his father left him alone in a motel room for days, and a stranger got into the apartment because Dean wasn't careful. He still blames himself for putting Sam in danger. He wears far too much plaid. He listens to the music his father did, partially because he grew to love it himself, and partially to still feel close to him – to the man he could never please." Castiel looks up. "He never meant to hurt me."

Morgan sees it; with understanding Dean, Castiel feels sympathy for him. Castiel can't separate what he knows about Dean's hard life from the crimes committed against him. "Are those your words, or his?"

"Bit of both," Castiel admits. He looks haunted. He picks up the beer, but he doesn't drink, just holds it, white-knuckled.

"Castiel, what did you want me to understand?"

Castiel begins to speak and then stops. Then again. "Most of the time, I was happy."

Morgan doesn't have the slightest clue what to say to that. If Castiel had insisted he was simply 'happy' with Dean, Morgan would have known it for the desperate delusion it was and Castiel's attempt at coping with his imprisonment. But that's not the words Castiel used, and they just had a discussion about the ways Dean physically abused Castiel. Whether Castiel uses that word or not, he recognizes the trauma of being beaten.

"You think I'm crazy," Castiel says, soft.

Morgan shakes his head. It's not completely uncommon for victims of crimes like what Castiel suffered to have had moments of happiness, to have found some light in the dark. But Morgan doesn't think Castiel means it that way. "I don't know what to say, but I don't think you're crazy. Can you explain?"

Condensation is building on Castiel's beer. Castiel wipes it off, frowning like he's trying to think of what to say. "The first few months were stressful. I was still really focused on escape, and the fear that Dean would rape or torture me. But when we starting sleeping in the same bed – we made a deal, that's why Dean sent Balthazar that letter – over time, I got over that fear. I don't know if it was the physical proximity, desire for physical contact, or the fact that nothing happened while I was asleep, but I started to trust him. Trust that he wouldn't hurt me unless I provoked it."

"I'm not sure I'd consider escaping your kidnapper as provoking a reaction." Were they talking about a case, Morgan wouldn't have disagreed with the word, since it's accurate in terms of what happened, but for Castiel? A victim? It worries Morgan. "Maybe to his warped way of thinking, but it's –"

Castiel interrupts. "I know. But there was a certain predictability. I knew how he would react." Castiel tilts his head. "After the first time I tried to escape, Dean told me he wouldn't ask me to stop trying. Just not to attack him. Dean … he liked that I fought. He wanted me to fight, he just didn't want me to fight him. And I know that sounds like a load of bull to you, but Dean meant it."

Morgan decides to just nod and go along with it. "So you began to trust him."

Castiel finally takes another sip of his beer. "Dean is charming. I mean, you know that, it's in his profile and witnesses have spoken at length about it. But he's like that in everyday life, too. He was very easy-going. Not difficult to live with at all."

"What was a typical day like?" Morgan asks, hoping Castiel will divulge more.

"He would wake up first, leave the bed," Castiel says slowly. "By the time I woke up, breakfast would be ready. Made from scratch, always, and something new. We'd eat breakfast together, then pick something to do. Early on, I couldn't go outside, so it was playing games, or watching a movie – he would let me pick, usually – or he'd take care of things in the places I couldn't go, and I'd read a book. We would talk, often for hours. Lunch and dinner, then back to bed."

Sounds domestic. But Morgan doesn't believe that's the end of it.

Then, unbidden, the words seem to burst out of Castiel: "He was obsessed with me. Even after I knew he wouldn't act on it without my consent, sometimes the way he'd look at me, like he wanted to –" Castiel stops. "But he was never cruel. He was kind. I know it sounds fucked up and like I'm delusional, but Dean tried to fix anything that upset me, besides my captivity itself. If I became depressed, he would cajole me into exercising and eating, find me special treats. Books, often, or some new dish he'd found."

"But he was obsessed with you," Morgan says, pinging on the words that Castiel didn't mean to say.

"In the beginning, before I let him – before, he would masturbate in the shower before bed," Castiel says, strangely blank. "If he didn't, I'd wake up with him rubbing against me in his sleep."

"That does exert a psychological pressure on you. An expectation," Morgan says carefully. "You do know that."

Castiel's face shows grief. "But most of the time, I was happy."

"I think that has more to do with your strength of will, than what Dean did for you."

"Perhaps. But in the end, when I gave up - I'm ashamed to admit it, but it was easier to be happy once I gave up escaping. When I just accepted Dean's comfort and companionship." Castiel downs the rest of the beer in three huge gulps. "I called him my lover."

"Castiel …"

"It wasn't like I was a victim," Castiel tries to explain. Morgan watches him struggle to find the words to defend Dean with a heavy heart. "It didn't – it doesn't feel that way. I initiated a large portion of my relationship with Dean."

"Did you? You just said to me that you noticed how he looked at you, that he coerced you into sleeping in the same bed, that you woke up with him aroused and touching you. None of that is initiating anything on your part." Morgan clasps his hands together, trying to figure out what to say and how far to go. Castiel's been very open, talking more about his captivity than he has in the entirety of the past two months. Does Castiel want to tell him the painful details? "It sounds to me like he created an environment where you couldn't escape his sexual desires, regardless of whether he directly forced you."

Castiel frowns at him, looking confused, though fortunately not offended. "I see your point, but –" Castiel doesn't finish.

Morgan says, "You don't have to choose your words with me, Castiel. You and I, we're profilers. You know the job that we do. There's nothing you can say that could shock me." And Morgan means every word. Watching a team member struggle with the same things that so many victims have is painful, but the words, the events, and even the emotions Castiel feels are not new and unexplainable.

Castiel stares down for almost a full minute before he replies. "I love him." Fear is in his eyes when he finally looks up.

Morgan tries to show his understanding, his calm. That Castiel can say those words, and that Morgan will listen.

"I partially left for him, you know," Castiel says, the words spilling out now. Fast, breathy, and desperate. "Because he was as trapped as I was. As much as I loved him and told him so, as many times as we had sex, that cuff on my ankle overshadowed everything. I constantly suffered for my imprisonment, and he constantly suffered the fear of losing me. And you don't know Dean, Morgan, but I do, and abandonment is what Dean fears most. The day that I escaped I wrote on the map on the wall, 'Don't kill yourself' because I feared he would. I feared he would eat a bullet, seeing me gone, and I don't want him dead. But it was the only thing I could do, you see. For both of us. If I didn't, it would just break us further. And Dean's already so broken, and so am I."

How far Castiel has fallen in his suffering. That's what Morgan sees. And it hurts, to see that much pain in his friend. At the same time, he knows that there was no map found in the motel that Castiel escaped from. Dean must have taken it, the last words of hope and encouragement from the man he kept prisoner. Castiel escaped, but he's still so tightly bound to Dean, and Dean to him.

Castiel knows that. As a few tears slip down Castiel's face, Morgan knows that Castiel is far too aware of it. Castiel wants to be free, but he doesn't hate Dean. He doesn't even want Dean captured, despite how much information he's given the team, most of which has been confirmed accurate.

Morgan says, "I understand. But let me tell you what I see. What I hear."

Castiel is the one to wait, this time.

"You have bite mark on your neck. A scar. Dean did that to you. I know how hard you have to bite to draw blood, Castiel, and it's not easy. And I can think of only one reason Dean would do that to you with enough force to scar, and that's to mark a claim. That wasn't love. That was ownership."

Castiel's hand flies to the scar, his face pale.

"You fear him finding you. I know we put together dozens of precautions, including the security cameras outside your door and building, but I'm also sure you did more that I don't even know about, because I know you, Castiel, and you are determined to be free. Maybe you were happy, in a way and for a time, but it wasn't good for you. You weren't as happy as you could be, out here and free. You know that, or you wouldn't fight so hard to stay away from Dean now."

Castiel bows his head.

"He hurt you, Castiel," Morgan says gently, dipping his head down to look Castiel in the eyes. "And I hate to see you still in pain because you don't want to put the blame for that where it belongs."

Castiel's breathing hitches. His eyes are wet. "I can't hate him, Morgan."

"You don't have to. But you don't have to love him, either."

"But I – but I gave him my consent. For everything he did, for everything I did with him. I'm responsible for that, Morgan."

Morgan shakes his head. "He was holding you prisoner!"

"He didn't tie me to the bed and rape me," Castiel snaps.

"He didn't tie you to the bed because he didn't have to. You think Buford tied me up? He didn't need to, because he'd set up things where I couldn't say no, even if I were capable of that at the time."

Apology and pain breaks across Castiel's face. He knows the story of how Morgan was molested as a child, at least a few scant details. "Morgan, I'm sorry, I didn't mean –"

"Don't apologize, Castiel. Listen." Morgan keeps his tone clipped.

Castiel's mouth snaps shut.

"You survived. Everything you just described to me, every emotion you felt, I don't doubt it's real. But I also don't doubt that it came about as a matter of your survival. Physically, psychologically, even emotionally. You said it yourself – that cuff overshadowed everything. Nothing you did while you were a prisoner was willing. From the first moment he kidnapped you, nothing was a free choice. There were only evils to choose from."

A wild cry bursts from Castiel, like an animal in pain. He drops the empty beer bottle, which falls to the floor with a thunk, and then curls up into a ball, throwing his arms around his knees and hiding his face.

Alarmed, Morgan half-rises. When Castiel continues to let loose pained noises that aren't properly crying, more like he's been physically gutted, Morgan carefully kneels next to him. He doesn't touch Castiel; he's not sure Castiel wants that, right now.

Castiel stills. Morgan sees a flash of his blue eyes as Castiel glances at him, but then his gaze falls. Then, very quietly, Castiel says, "The first time we had sex … I cried afterward. He held me and kept saying how good I did, how beautiful I was, but all I could think about was that I didn't want it. I told him yes, but I didn't want it."

"I'm sorry you went through that," Morgan says softly.

Castiel doesn't speak again.

He lets Morgan stay, though. He doesn't push away, or closer, or make any noise. After ten minutes of silence, Castiel rises up without a word and walks to his bedroom. When Morgan asks, "Do you mind if I crash on the couch?" Castiel pauses and shifts direction, grabbing several blankets and a pillow from the hall closet, and hands them to Morgan. "Castiel. Anything you need, okay?"

Castiel meets Morgan's eyes, and nods. Then he disappears into his bedroom.

Morgan makes a bed for himself on the couch, after picking up the empty beer bottle and throwing it away. He sits on the couch for several minutes, thinking about the weird dichotomy of Castiel saying Dean never physically abused him, then admitting that Dean beat him into submission to prevent him from escaping.

Castiel isn't capable of viewing his own captivity all that objectively. That isn't surprising, but the specific ways that Castiel has twisted his mind in order to cope with Dean are. It seems so easy, so clear to Morgan how badly Dean fucked with Castiel's mind, but Castiel is still determined to believe that Dean didn't do it intentionally.

But maybe now Castiel realizes that despite any excuses he can give Dean, that doesn't change the reality of what was done to him. Good intentions don't mean anything, not when the first act was so clearly wrong. Even Dean admitted that, when both Morgan and JJ interrogated him. Not that Morgan thinks Dean really had any good intentions, not with his criminal history.

Morgan leaves after ten in the morning with Castiel still asleep. JJ stops by a few hours later, at Morgan's suggestion, and texts Morgan, _He seems fine. Made delicious scrambled eggs for me._

* * *

Castiel looks fuzzily at his clock. 3:41 AM. He closes his eyes and pushes his face into his pillow, but ten minutes later when that tactic has failed to elicit sleep, he gets up and swings his legs off the bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He looks around his dark room for a little bit, but everything appears normal. He checks that the hex bag on the night stand is still intact, then the sigil under the black and white photography of a forest, and relaxes.

He lifts his shirt, checking the fresh tattoo that adorns his ribs. The strange symbols are familiar now, of course. He stared at them long enough before finally deciding his research is accurate and that the sigil is real, as well as before getting the tattoo – permanently marking himself with his desire to be free, but also the fact that he'll always be looking over his shoulder.

The tattoo itself hurt quite a bit just because tattoos do, when done with skin right against bone. But it's a good spot – unlike his arm, chest, or hip, it really can't be accidentally revealed. Of course he'll have to tell the FBI about it when he comes back, but the FBI is fine with agents getting tattoos as long as they are easily concealed.

When he comes back.

Castiel goes to his gun case in the closet and loads the weapon before laying it down. Then he gets dressed for a walk, puts on the hip holster, and then pulls a long coat over it.

It's a few hours before dawn, which means it's as dark as a city ever gets. Still, Castiel has taken many walks at this hour – the streets are comfortably empty, and with the gun a reassuring weight at his side, he feels confident. He even has a bit of a normal route, which typically takes him about an hour and a half to complete. Every once in a while he'll get some odd looks, and once someone followed him for two blocks before Castiel casually exposed the gun at his hip. The stranger, no doubt looking to rob him, disappeared almost instantly.

The streetlights are a warm yellow against the dark blue of the sky. Castiel finds himself looking for stars and trying to identify them. One, he realizes after about fifteen minutes, is Venus, not a star.

There's the occasional car driving down the wet streets, but it's rare enough that when Castiel hears the low rumble of a powerful engine, he pauses. He looks back, but he doesn't see any car approaching. After a moment, the sound fades.

So he returns to his route. He makes it two blocks.

"Cas?"

Castiel whirls and draws his gun at the same time.

Dean is standing there, wearing his usual leather jacket over something plaid. Jeans. His face is paler than Castiel remembers. He's also holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, but that doesn't reassure Castiel in the slightest. He has his cell phone in his pocket, but he'd have to hold the gun one-handed, and right now his hands are shaking.

"I'm not here to kidnap you," Dean says, lifting his arms a little with his palms open. "I swear, I just want to talk. I'm never – I swear to you, I will never try to take you again." Dean laughs a little, desperate sorrow in his eyes. "I can't believe it's you."

Castiel could say the same thing. "What are you doing here?" he demands. "How did you find me?"

"I've been here for weeks, driving through the streets. Tried scrying for a while, but didn't have any luck." Dean smiles. "I'm guessing that's you. With the entire world at your fingertips, of course you thought of everything. But, uh, I honestly found you randomly. Can't use motels because I've been in the same area for too long, to use fake credit cards, so I was just driving."

Castiel swallows, fear thrumming along his racing heartbeat. He remembers his promise to Balthazar – that he would take Dean's life before he would allow Dean to kidnap him again. He keeps his finger flat across the gun, not sliding his finger onto the trigger. Yet. "Why are you here, Dean?"

"I want – I want to, I don't know how to say this, fuck. I want to make amends."

Castiel lets loose a disbelieving laugh. "You want to say you're sorry? Then never come back."

Dean flinches. "Is that what you want?"

Castiel tries to say yes. But instead he says, "You hurt me, Dean."

Shame breaks across Dean's face. "I know." He looks down at the ground for a few seconds before managing to look up at Castiel. He ignores the gun that Castiel is still pointing him.

"Do you?"

Dean looks away. "I have Aditi. Do you want her?"

"Yes." At least that much comes easily.

Dean whistles, the same one that Castiel taught her to respond to. Not more than five seconds later, Castiel sees her running towards him with a long leash dragging along the ground. She must have been in Dean's car, the one Castiel heard and dismissed as nothing. But Aditi looks just as she did the day he and Dean left the bunker. Castiel feels his gun lower, and then he lets his other hand drop, so he's holding it with only his right hand.

Aditi bounds right up to him, ignoring Dean entirely. She jumps up on him, and automatically Castiel says, "Sit," and she obeys, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of her mouth. His hand goes to her head, stroking through her familiar fur.

That's when Castiel realizes he took his eyes off of Dean. He looks up, grip on his gun tightening, but Dean hasn't approached. He's watching Castiel interact with Aditi with a faint smile on his face, his arms lowered, but his hands loose and empty. When Dean meets Castiel's gaze, Dean says, "She made you so happy, so I thought …"

Castiel's vision goes blurry. His heart is still racing, but now anger fuels it. He points the gun at Dean again. "You raped me, Dean."

Dean looks like he wants to answer, but instead he looks at Castiel silently.

"You took me away from everything, from everyone, and made yourself my only comfort, my only company, and you manipulated me into sharing a bed with you. You manipulated me into having sex with you. I couldn't consent with that cuff on me, because the choice to leave was taken from me, Dean. How could I say no when I couldn't leave? Couldn't choose someone else?" Castiel recognizes the deep pain and anger that have been boiling in him for so long, and now it's pouring out of him, aimed at the right person. As much as their later sexual interactions were full of love, some kind of love, the first ones were full of pain and violation for Castiel. "You took away my ability to choose when you took away my freedom."

"Cas, please –" Dean's eyes glitter. His shoulders are hunched in.

"All I had was you!" Castiel screams. "Of course I let you fuck me. What else did I have? Nothing. And let's face it, the only reason I got out is because I did. Because in the end I gave in, and I let you kiss me. I let you give me a blowjob. I let you fuck me, take everything. I called you my lover. You didn't want to make that deal with me, Dean, sex for freedom, but that's exactly what happened anyway."

Dean almost speaks, then clearly stops himself. He looks Castiel in the eye and straightens his shoulders. "You're right."

That's not enough. "Say it. Say it to me." Castiel's voice almost breaks.

"I raped you. I raped you, Cas. And I'm so, so sorry. I know that doesn't mean shit, but I am. I'm sorry." Dean pauses, green eyes full of grief. "I should have blown my brains out in that motel room, shouldn't I?"

"Don't put that on me, Dean," Castiel says, but he's unable to snap it.

"I didn't mean – I'm sorry." Dean shifts his weight, his lower lip trembling a little. He swallows hard and then his right hand slips into a pocket.

Castiel raises his gun.

"I'm not – I'm just going for my right pocket, okay? Not for a weapon," Dean promises.

But of course Dean promised a lot of things that were lies. Still, Castiel waits. Doesn't shoot.

Dean carefully takes out a piece of folded paper. It looks like it's lived in his pocket for a long time, wrinkled and worn. Dean moves to hold it out, and then seems to reconsider. He puts it on the ground gently, telegraphing his every slow movement. "What you do with it is up to you," Dean says. "Whatever you decide, I'll live with."

Castiel doesn't answer, feeling confused. He doesn't go for the paper, either.

"I love you, Cas. And I'd like to make things right. But I realized that only you can decide how that happens. So I'm putting it all in your hands. I won't try to find you again."

"Is that all?" Castiel whispers. "Is that it?" he repeats, a demand in his voice this time.

Dean nods. "Yeah. That's it."

Castiel stares at him.

And Dean simply waits.

"I'll give you a five head minute start, then I'm calling the police."

Dean inhales sharply.

"Starting now," Castiel adds.

Dean takes a step back, and then another. His face is full of grief, and guilt, and love. Then he turns away and begins running. In a matter of moments, he's out of sight.

His arm feeling like it weighs a ton, Castiel lets his gun fall to his side. Then he falls to his knees, and with a shaking hand and Aditi nosing at his neck, he picks up the still-dry piece of paper and slips it into his pant pocket without looking at it. Then he throws his arms around Aditi and weeps. She licks at his face as he pushes his fingers through her thick fur, finding comfort there.

He looks at his phone when he thinks five minutes has passed, and then calls 911.

Castiel is in a daze, and barely able to respond to the questions of the first police officer on the scene. Hotchner gets called at the supervising agent on Dean's case. After he explains to the police that Dean just ran, and he wasn't going to shoot a man in the back, Hotchner arrives and insists on Aditi being scanned for GPS devices or a chip. Castiel feels like he's living a dream, so Hotchner takes over speaking with the police about catching Dean, and sends Castiel home without Aditi, promising that someone will be by with her if she checks out.

It's in the bright light of the sun streaming through his apartment windows that Castiel takes out the slip of paper that Dean gave him.

GPS coordinates. 39.810492, -98.556061. Then a phone number, all scribbled in Dean's handwriting.

Castiel stares at the location of the bunker for a long time.

He looks out at the blinding sunlight, then walks to his bookshelf. He chooses the oldest book he owns, a children's story that no one else will ever pick up, and he hides the slip of paper in its pages.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN:** Okay, so sorry for the lateness, but I had a hell of a time in RL. In the past two weeks, I ended up in the ER (I'm fine, mostly recovered at this point) and our car broke down. I've pushed this out because I don't post on the weekends and you guys have waited so patiently, so there's probably mistakes. I will try to clean them up later. Go ahead and let me know of any glaring ones and I'll correct them. And why did I torture myself with so many italics this chapter?

Also, I will reply to any unreplied-to-comments on the previous chapter by Monday. I decided to prioritize getting out the chapter instead of replying to readers.

 **Warnings (spoilers!):** Reference to dubious consent sex, flashbacks, and a semi-breakdown.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Castiel stares at his cell phone.

Aditi is sitting next to him on the couch, her cold nose skimming across the bare skin between his rucked up shirt and jeans. He yelps and shifts, but Aditi only takes the opportunity to shove her head into his lap. With a sigh, Castiel runs a hand over her head, rubbing behind her ears. How long has he been staring at the cell phone like this, that Aditi feels the need to interrupt him? She's usually so well trained, though of course Dean might have given her bad habits. It's a weird thought, because he's tried so hard to not even think about what was going on at the bunker. With Dean. The idea of Dean, in the present, is something he's mostly managed to eliminate.

Until today.

After a moment of hesitation, Castiel hits call.

 _"Hello?"_ Balthazar's voice, of course.

"Hi, Bal." Castiel slouches, hoping that if he acts like he's relaxed, it'll come across on the phone.

 _"You doing all right?"_

"First, I just want to stress that I am completely fine, and you don't need to come here," Castiel begins.

There's a clatter on Balthazar's end. _"I AM COMING. What happened?"_

Castiel winces. "I went on a walk and saw Dean. We talked, he left, that was it."

 _"Oh my God."_ There's another loud thump, from what Castiel can't imagine, and then the sound of a door opening. _"I'm on my way. They didn't catch that asshole?"_ Then, distant shouting. Castiel strains. It sounds like … an old woman. _"What?"_ Bal snaps to someone. _"You never seen a naked ass before?"_

Castiel blinks.

 _"I'm getting fucking dressed, shut up!"_ Another sound of a door opening and closing. _"I'll be there in four hours. I've been keeping track of flights. Does he know where you live?"_

"No, Bal, he came upon me entirely by accident."

 _"He wasn't walking around your neighborhood by accident, Cassie! Don't be stupid!"_

"Well, the point is, I'm fine, he doesn't know where I am." Castiel pauses. "I don't think the airport allows naked passengers, either, you should take your time coming. I know you think every woman over thirty loves your body, but really, Bal –"

 _"Not funny, Cassie."_

T en minutes of reassurances later, while Balthazar packs, and Castiel is finally able to hang up. He feels suddenly exhausted, which he supposes makes sense. It was very early in the morning when Dean found him, and though it's mid-morning now, Castiel hasn't slept. He stumbles over to his bedroom and collapses in bed, Aditi climbing in next to him and putting the bulk of her weight up against his side, just like he trained her to do.

He curls an arm around her and falls asleep.

* * *

A knock at the door wakes him. He flails for a second, finding fur at this fingertips. His eyes feel grainy and he blinks several times before sliding off the bed, Aditi following him with a thump. Though he hasn't been with her in months, it feels normal to have her here. And he's privately very relieved that nothing was found on her. His laptop is in the living room and he opens it, checking the security camera at his door before closing the laptop again and rubbing his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths and opens the door.

Hotchner and Morgan are there.

"Did we wake you?" Hotchner asks, a faint expression of concern on his face. "We can do this later."

Castiel shakes his head. "It's fine. I'd rather get it over with." He steps aside to let them in. "Did you find him?"

Hotchner settles on the couch and clasps his hands together, his elbows on his knees. Morgan follows, but deliberately chooses a more relaxed posture, sitting back. "No. We did catch him on a few security cameras on the way out of town, but lost him," Hotchner says. He eyes Castiel. "You look better. Do you feel up to answering our questions?"

Castiel curls up on the armchair, Aditi at his feet. "Yes." And he's not lying. He still doesn't know exactly what to do about Dean, but he's doing all right. He feels a little like his skin isn't fitting comfortably, like there's something just of reach he should be worrying about, but he chooses to ignore it.

"Walk us through it," Morgan says.

"I went on a walk around four in the morning. Which I've been doing a couple of times a week, so it's not unusual for me to be outside at that time of night. I'm always armed with my off-duty weapon." Aditi puts her front paws on the seat of the armchair, and Castiel clicks his tongue and points at the floor. She settles with a pout. "I thought I heard a muscle car like Dean's, but it faded so I figured it was nothing. Then I heard Dean say my name." Castiel remembers the exact way he said it, too, soft and afraid. "He called me Cas. He's on the only one who does that."

Hotchner nods calmly.

"I drew my gun immediately, turned, and aimed at him. He raised his hands and started saying that he wasn't there to kidnap me." Castiel swallows. "He swore to me that he wouldn't ever try to take me against my will. That he wasn't here for that. I asked him how he found me, why he found me."

Hotchner nods, accepting that. "Did he say how he found you?"

"He said he'd been looking for a while, but I got the impression he was mostly floundering. He said he couldn't use fake credit cards too much in the same area, and that he was driving around in his car because of that, and just randomly happened on me." Castiel pets Aditi's head, and says while focusing on her, "He said he wanted to make amends for what he did to me."

"Do you believe him?" Morgan asks.

Castiel shrugs uncomfortably, finally looking up. "I think he was telling the truth as far as he knew it." It's a careful answer, if truthful as far as it goes. The FBI thinks that Dean is deeply mentally ill. And in a way, he is, just not with psychosis.

Morgan starts writing in a small notepad that all agents carry. "Go on."

"He – he admitted – " Castiel stops. "I told him that he hurt me. He said he knew he did. Then he asked if I wanted Aditi, and I said yes. He called her from the car. He seemed … happy? I guess? That I was happy to see her. He said he thought she made me happy. I guess that was part of making amends, in his mind."

"What then?" Morgan asks.

Castiel doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if he wants to confess this part of the conversation. He wipes his mouth.

"Do you want this part off the record?" Morgan asks gently.

Castiel shakes a little. "Yes. If you can." He eyes Hotchner.

Hotchner nods. "Off the record, though I can't promise that it won't be discussed when you want to come back on duty."

"That's fine," Castiel says. "I, uh. I accused him of raping me. I – I ranted at him. The thing is, I did verbally consent to everything he did to me. But he took everything from me, my freedom, my friends, my job, even my ability to make choices. By the end I couldn't even – I couldn't decide anything for myself. He took every ounce of control I ever had, and with that, with that how could I consent?" Castiel breathes deeply, not looking at either of his friends, wanting to get this out. "Three months into my captivity, I tried to make a deal with him - sex for my freedom. Because I realized even that early that getting out was … not likely to happen. He refused and said it would be rape. But he did – he did rape me. Eventually."

"I am very sorry you went through that," Hotchner says, and it's no different than what Castiel has said to victims he's interviewed.

But Castiel eyes still sting. He looks up, but both Hotchner and Morgan look at him with nothing but calm sympathy. "He admitted to me. He said I was right. And I made him say it. I made him say that he'd raped me."

Morgan rises to his feet, and Castiel watches him as he kneels next to Castiel and silently places a hand on Castiel's shoulder. It's physical comfort, which still has the tendency to make Castiel uneasy sometimes, but right now it fits. Feels right.

"He said he wanted to make amends, but he wasn't sure how," Castiel continues, a little steadier, giving Morgan a grateful look. "But he said he wouldn't try to find me again if I didn't want that. After that, he took off. I aimed, but I didn't fire."

"He didn't give you a means to contact him?" Hotchner asks. "Based on what you've said, that would be required to make amends."

Castiel shakes his head, this the first real lie he's told. "I believe him when he says he won't try to kidnap me again. But find me again? I think – I think he might." Because that's the only logical explanation for Dean's behavior, since Castiel is excluding the location of the bunker and the phone number. "To say sorry, or what, I don't know. I think it has occurred to him to turn himself in, but I don't know if he'll do that or not."

"Which direction did he flee?" Morgan asks, taking his hand away but staying close.

"West, from where you found me, just like I said," Castiel replies immediately, which is true. "I'm assuming based on Aditi that's where his car was, though it wasn't in sight." He looks at Hotchner. "Am I in trouble for not firing? I know Dean is considered a public threat, so it would have been a justified shooting."

"Why didn't you fire?" Hotchner asks.

Castiel bites his lip. "I'm not sure."

"At this point, no, you're not in trouble. You're still on medical leave. No one expects someone recovering from that kind of trauma to react perfectly when confronted by their attacker, especially for the first time since the incident," Hotchner says.

Castiel nods slowly. Hotchner looks receptive, so he adds, "I don't want on his case. I know that I wouldn't be put on it anyway, but we've bent that rule before. But I don't want to ever be on his case, or have anything to do with capturing him." Castiel pauses. "Except maybe for the Charlie portion. But anything to do with Dean directly, no."

Hotchner just continues to give Castiel his usual, steady look. Very little ever shows on Hotchner's face, though sometimes Castiel sees more emotion through his eyes. "I'm glad to hear that. I think that's for the best."

Morgan rises to his feet. "Do you think Dean is a threat to you?"

Castiel looks up at him. "I don't think so," he says slowly. "Dean – well. Dean isn't much of a liar."

Morgan exchanges a look with Hotchner that Castiel can't read, then he says to Castiel, "Do you want me to stay with you until your brother arrives?"

Castiel shakes his head, though he wonders when Morgan found out about that. Maybe Balthazar called him in a panic, trying to get more information. "No, that's not necessary. Honestly, I'm doing all right." He gives Morgan a small smile. "I've got Aditi to keep me company."

A few reassurances later, Castiel is alone again. He stands at the door for a long moment, biting his lip as he thinks. After a moment, he opens the apartment window, letting all the early afternoon sunlight in, along with the slight breeze. Though he eventually was let outside, Castiel always missed having windows in the bunker itself.

Dean wants to make amends. Dean wants to atone, Castiel is guessing.

What does Castiel want?

He wants this. He wants his work, his friends, and his brother. And he realizes, that despite seeing Dean in pain, despite seeing Dean at all, his goals haven't changed.

He sits back in the armchair, Aditi at his feet, smiles and waits for his brother to arrive.

* * *

In some ways, Castiel is has adapted well to his life outside of Dean's prison.

He goes to the store, buys food, and makes his own meals. He manages all his bills (his finances are not as depleted as he thought they might be by his long time on leave; he had a decent savings and his brother took the load of keeping his old apartment). He's slowly requalifying himself to be armed on the job.

But the first time he goes to his hair cut, he flinches badly when she touches his bare skin, and she nearly leaves a gouge from her scissors. He ends up apologizing and rushing out, leaving a couple of twenties on the counter without finishing the haircut. It takes him a week to find another place and make himself to go. That time he doesn't flinch, but it's by pure willpower.

He has to buy a new coat, because moths got to his old one. He finds himself staring at the leather jackets for a full ten minutes before he walks away and gets a nice, formal, black trenchcoat. An FBI coat.

The first time he walked into the martial arts gym used by a lot of local law enforcement, he has a flashback to the last time he fought Dean and has to leave, pale and sweating. The fact that he sparred with Dean multiple times since then doesn't seem to help. He hasn't been able to make himself go back.

So when Balthazar finally arrives, tired and harassed-looking because the TSA picked on him, he's not entirely surprised that he bursts into tears and throws himself into Balthazar's arms.

"It's okay, Cassie, it's okay, I'm here," Balthazar whispers, holding Castiel tight. There's no 'I told you so,' thankfully.

After a minute, Castiel is able to draw himself away. He wipes his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be an idiot, Cassie," Balthazar says. He directs Castiel to the couch and has him sit down. Castiel obeys, somewhat numbly. "Did your boss say you were safe here?"

"As far as they can tell, yes –"

"What the fuck is that?" Balthazar demands, freezing halfway through sitting down next to him.

Castiel blinks and looks at what he's pointing at. Aditi. Seeing she's the center of attention, she whines and trots to Castiel's side, shoving her cold nose into his lap. "My dog," Castiel says. "Um, the one that Dean gave me." He holds up his hand when Balthazar opens his mouth. "She's fine. No trackers. Hotchner had her checked her out before dropping her off here."

Balthazar looks a little sick and a little wary. "That asshole gave you a reminder of him?"

Castiel sighs. "I don't think that was the intention, Bal. She was always my dog, and I found a lot of comfort in her." Balthazar opens his mouth, but Castiel interrupts, "Please, Bal, I don't want to argue about this."

His brother's mouth snaps closed. "Fine." He finally sits and stares Castiel down.

"Have you been smoking?" Castiel asks, sniffing.

"No! Yes. Does it matter?"

"You stink. You know how dangerous those are, do I need to repeat –"

"No, I don't need to hear cancer statistics!"

* * *

Three days later, Castiel says goodbye to his brother at the airport. It takes a lot of reminding Balthazar of their discussion at the beach about Castiel retaking his life and living normally. About both of them living normally. Balthazar extracts another promise from Castiel to kill Dean if he has to, to remain free.

Castiel doesn't think that will be a problem. He doesn't think Dean is going to pop in unexpectedly again.

It's dark, nearly nine in the evening, when Castiel drives out of the airport. He knows the path home, of course, but he finds himself meandering. Taking new roads. He knows the city pretty well, because he's always memorized the general layout of any city he's lived in so he knows all the ways in and out, and the fastest way to get to work if there's road work or other problems. He doesn't live in the same city as he did before – that was a little too dangerous, even in Castiel's opinion – so he had to learn this one.

He pulls into a demure front of a bar.

It's a gay bar. Castiel knows that. The name doesn't really give it away – Manor Lodge, about as boring and nondescriptive a name as you can get. The sign isn't even lit.

Castiel gets out of his car and rather gingerly opens the front door, wandering into the dimly lit interior. It looks almost like any other high-class bar, full of leather, subtle lighting, and a lot of men. Only men, in fact. There's a wide variety of gay bars, it appears this one is aimed at a wealthier, more subtle clientele. He directly walks to the bar and sits down far from anyone else.

"Hey, handsome," the bartender says. He looks busy – save for the few seats next to Castiel, the bar is full – but he gives Castiel a warm smile. "What'll you have?"

"Anything on tap, please," Castiel says.

He manages to down maybe a third of the glass when a man settles in the stool next to him. He's a dark blond with grey eyes and dressed well in a suit. When Castiel glances at him, he smiles widely. His teeth are almost perfect, and it's weird that's what he notices first. Out of habit, he starts profiling the man – he works in business, something high stress. He's confident and wealthy. He likes to exude those aspects of himself and will stress those first. If he's here, he's likely out in the open. As Castiel looks closer, he realizes the man is slightly older than he is – a bit of gray in his hair and broad laugh lines around his eyes. He also looks directly at Castiel.

"Hi, there. My name is Stephen." He has a slight southern accent, and he holds out his hand to be shaken.

Castiel takes it reluctantly, not sure he wants to have a conversation. He's not even exactly sure why he's here.

"What's yours?"

"Cas." Cas? Did he seriously just call himself Cas, Dean's nickname for him? He's always refused to surrender to the tendency of people to want an easy name, and insisted he be called by his full name. Why change that now?

"Somehow, I get the feeling you've never been to a gay bar before," Stephen says, motioning for the bartender.

"Never for personal reasons, only on business," Castiel says, and then realizes how that might sound. "Law enforcement. I'm in law enforcement," he adds hastily.

Stephen raises his eyebrows. "And it's personal this time?"

Castiel nods silently.

"Not often you see many cops openly about this kind of place. Though I guess it explains the government trenchcoat."

Castiel smiles wryly and shrugs. "My colleagues wouldn't care."

"Mine do, but I've never let that bother me," Stephen says. "Stock broker. Very boring, I'm sure, in comparison to your work."

"And what's the average day of a stock broker like?" Castiel asks.

Stephen grins, an odd little side smile, and begins.

Castiel quickly finds that Stephen is funny, charming, and sweet. And in his head, Castiel can't stop comparing him to Dean. The similarities, but also the differences. He's far more open than Dean ever is, even in a conversation with a near stranger. He talks about his family unreservedly. He doesn't put pressure on Castiel to offer his own history up. He's casual in a way Dean never was and never could be, because Castiel isn't his soulmate, some thing to be achieved or owned. Castiel is a good-looking guy in a bar, and nothing more.

After a while, Castiel is able to open a little. He mentions his work at the FBI, which unpredictably results in a joke about Castiel using it as a pickup line.

Stephen's life is also very different from Dean's. Stephen came from a normal middle-class family, came out after getting his MBA, and works in a high-stress office situation.

"But I'm sure you would understand what it's like after a stressful day," Stephen finishes. "With your work."

Castiel nods. "I learned years ago how important it is to de-stress. I did it with coworkers, mostly. A beer, or dinner, or a lecture …" Reid, mostly, with that one. "I used to go on long runs."

"Past tense?"

"I'm on medical leave," Castiel says after a short hesitation. "There was a case … well. It's a messy story. I'm not walking around with a bullet wound, but I can't work yet."

Stephen winces on his behalf and doesn't press. "But that means you have a great deal of free time, yes?"

"I do," Castiel admits, sipping his third beer. He feels like … Stephen is flirting. And going somewhere with it.

Stephen moves his hand over Castiel's empty one. "How about tonight?"

Castiel feels a completely surprising pulse of arousal. He licks his lips, and Steve's eyes follow the movement. "Perhaps."

"You want to get a breath of fresh air?"

As Castiel pays his tab and follows Stephen out of the back of the bar, he realizes why he came here. To test himself. He'd always considered himself straight until Dean kidnapped him, and never looked twice at another man. So had he learned to become so aroused by the male form, or was this always a hidden part of himself? Of course, it was Dean, and actually being sexually attracted to Dean came after almost a year of total isolation. He knows the statistics about not just male rape in prison, but the consensual relationships that form and then disappear when the men involved leave prison. He supposes it's comparable.

But as Stephen Castiel against a sports car, rubs a thumb along his cheekbone, and then kisses him, Castiel is turned on. He's not quite hard, but his body is definitely interested. Arousal coils in his stomach.

Stephen kisses nothing like Dean. Soft, but not in the hesitating way where Dean was afraid of pushing Castiel too far, but like that's just how he likes it. Castiel is passive at first, but when he pushes a little, exploring Stephen's mouth, Stephen gives in easily. He's slightly shorter than Castiel and completely smooth-shaven, and Castiel finds himself going from stroking Stephen's cheek to running his hand down Stephen's neck, down to his chest. Castiel moans a little when Stephen presses his knee between Castiel's legs, and Stephen says quietly, "Oh, fuck."

Stephen slides his hand into Castiel's coat, aiming for his waist, and Castiel automatically stops him, because he carries his gun on his right side, and he's armed right now.

"Oh, you weren't kidding about the FBI thing, were you?" Stephen grins. "Is that your gun, or are you happy to see me?"

Castiel laughs a little and rolls his eyes. He's between Stephen and Stephen's car, but when he shifts in a way to suggest he wants to move, Stephen backs up.

"Do you want to go to my place?" Stephen asks, trailing a hand down Castiel's arm.

Castiel feels suddenly very uncomfortable. "I, uh –" He doesn't know if he wants to go that far. He's proven to himself that he can find men attractive, men besides Dean, that is, but Stephen probably didn't deserve being Castiel's experiment. "The truth is, I've only really had one … partner. And it was …"

"Not over?" Stephen guesses.

Castiel laughs darkly. "It ended badly. Well, it started badly – I guess you would call it an abusive relationship."

Shock and sadness crosses Stephen's face. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry." He takes a full step back. "I didn't mean to push."

"You didn't," Castiel assures him.

Stephen eyes him a second, and then asks, "Mind if I give you my number?"

Castiel bites his lip and then smiles. "I'd like that."

Stephen fumbles for his wallet. "I've only got my business card, sorry. I'll put my cell on the back. But you can call me anytime. I'd like to get to know you better – this wasn't just about a one night stand, not for me. I like you, Cas."

"Castiel," Castiel corrects. That is his name, not one that Dean used – he's not Cas here, he's Castiel. "I usually go by my full name, Castiel."

"Castiel," Stephen says, letting the syllables roll with his accent. "I like how that sounds, though I have no idea what it means." He hands Castiel his business card, and strokes the tips of Castiel's fingers when Castiel takes it. "Can I call you a cab, Castiel?"

Having had three beers, Castiel agrees. Stephen is a perfect gentleman while they wait for the cab to arrive, and he even tells Castiel he'll take a separate one. They part as friends. Stephen doesn't go in for a goodnight kiss, and Castiel is half relieved and half disappointed.

Most of his buzz has disappeared by the time he's home. He checks every room and closet and locks the door before he puts his gun away, as he's done ever since Balthazar left. He believes that Dean was telling the truth when he said he wouldn't try to take Castiel again, but there's no reason for Castiel not to be cautious. Even if Dean has realized how horrific his actions were – and some part of Dean always knew, and ignored it – it's only been four months since he had Castiel locked up in the bunker. How much can a person change in that amount of time?

He wonders that about himself, too. How much he has changed from the frightened man who could barely bring himself to leave that motel room. How much of himself has returned.

Aditi whines to be let out. Castiel arms himself again, and walks her until she does her business, then cleans up. After that, he locks her in the spare bathroom for the night with a treat.

He's sober now. He reaches in his pocket and takes out the business card. Stephen Bailey.

Castiel has never gone for one night stands. All his relationships were built on friendships first, and he never started a relationship with an intention of it being a short-term one. Sexual attraction usually came second, not first. He places the business card on the nightstand.

He strips and lies down on his bed, taking his soft cock in hand. For a few minutes he does nothing, then he slowly strokes himself to hardness. His mind floats in the beginning, his body simply reacting to the physical stimulus, but he drifts to the sensation of Stephen's knee between his legs, pressing against his cock. He bites his lip and moans deep in his throat, and for the first time, he comes without the thought of Dean.

He lies there panting, cleans himself up, curls on his side and falls asleep. He doesn't dream.

* * *

"You're antsy," Dr. Katz comments.

Castiel rubs the back of his neck, trying to relax back into the soft armchair. "Yes, I suppose," he says noncommittally. He knows she wants him to open up as to why, and he knows he should, but he hasn't been able to make himself do it.

"You're always welcome to come to me with anything that concerns you, Castiel," Dr. Katz begins. "And you don't have to limit yourself to when you were imprisoned exclusively, or just to Dean."

Castiel squints at her. That's a lot closer than she should be.

"You think you're my first patient?" she asks wryly.

Castiel can't suppress his smile, though it's a nervous one. "I went to a gay bar a few nights ago."

Dr. Katz just nods. "How was that?"

"You know that I – I never had any sexual attraction to men. Before Dean. Not like …" Castiel pauses, trying to figure out how to word it. "I didn't just think about men that way at all. And now I wonder if my attraction to Dean was just situational. That because he was the only person available, I learned to want him that way."

"There were definitely situational pressures on you," Dr. Katz says carefully. "You were isolated, and he was your only source of human contact. That can definitely cause a temporary sexual attraction that wouldn't occur if you had access to your preferred sexual partners. But it's also not uncommon for bisexuals not to realize they can be attracted to the other sex until a specific person comes along." She raises a hand. "Not that I'm saying either one is the case. I'm offering possibilities."

Castiel looks away. "I've been debating that myself."

"Did you meet anyone at the bar?"

Castiel nods slowly. "A man, yes. He was – nice. We got along. And he kissed me and I, I kissed him back."

"No flashbacks?"

"Surprisingly, no. I enjoyed it. He offered, well, he offered to take me to his place, but I turned him down and he respected that." Castiel pauses. "I like that he respected that. He didn't say he could make it good, or anything like that. Just backed off."

Dr. Katz smiles gently. "Good. I'm glad it was a positive experience for you."

"He gave me his business card, so I could call."

"Have you?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. Not yet." Not yet? "I don't know if I will."

"My only advice is to take your time and don't rush yourself. You don't need to test yourself or make a final call about your sexuality. Okay?"

Castiel nods.

Dr. Katz flips open a folder she has with her. "Has your brother gone home?" she asks.

Castiel nods, wondering what she's looking at. She's never even written notes during their sessions. "Two days ago. He stayed over the weekend, but I didn't want him to miss more time at work."

"And you've been all right without him? I know you didn't want to change your session to an earlier time, but was seeing Dean again an upheaval for you? I had the impression you didn't expect to see him again."

Castiel hesitates. "I didn't. Or I didn't think about it." He adds slowly, "For all this time, I didn't want to think about it and just … didn't. Thinking about Dean being real or somewhere – anywhere – I avoided entirely. I just wanted to separate myself from that while I recovered."

"While you recovered? But what about after you saw him?"

Did Castiel always think he'd see Dean again, somewhere deep down? Did he want it, or did he fear it? "I don't know. I just – I just don't know."

Dr. Katz accepts that. "What have you been feeling?"

"In a weird way, it's been a confirmation. That I'm where I want to be, doing what I want to do." Castiel smiles faintly. "Is that weird?"

Dr. Katz shakes her head, looking pleased. "Not at all. I'm very happy to hear that."

"I told Hotch that I didn't want to be on Dean's case. I mean, it's standard procedure that I wouldn't be, but I know the BAU has bent rules like that before. But I don't want to. I know that when it comes to Dean, I'm never going to be unbiased, and I don't know that I'll ever be able to say that I can treat him like any other suspect." Castiel hesitates. "That's the truth. I don't know if that's what the FBI wants to hear, but that's the truth."

Dr. Katz nods slowly. "Castiel, can I ask you a couple of questions?"

"Go ahead."

"First, was what Dead did to you wrong?"

"Yes."

"Would you let him hurt anyone else?"

"No, absolutely not."

"Then to tell you the truth, I'd be all right with giving the FBI an okay for your return to desk duty." She raises her hands. "Now, I know this is quick, after Dean just reappeared. But I've been seeing you twice a week for four months, and I've been debating your readiness for a few weeks since we cut it down to one. To hear that you feel confident in your decision to escape from Dean is incredibly encouraging, and I think a very healthy thing for you. As well as your recent socializations."

Castiel tries to start breathing again. "Really?"

She nods. "It is, of course, up to you. If you don't feel ready, then you're not ready. But if you doubt yourself, I don't doubt you."

Castiel laughs a little, looking down. "I would really like to return to work."

"All right, I'll let Agent Hotchner know. You'll go to desk duty first, and your return to active duty will be partly his call and partly mine. All right?"

"Yes."

Castiel can't keep himself contained for the rest of the session, and she eventually lets him go early. He stops by a frozen yogurt shop and gets an absolutely disgusting amount of variations of chocolate. The cashier actually smiles at him and asks, "Good day?"

"Definitely," Castiel says, knowing he's grinning.

* * *

Hotchner sits down heavily, hands flat on his desk. He's known a lot of what Castiel went through during those missing eighteen months, but hearing it in detail was still something he wasn't quite prepared for. He didn't let it show during the debrief, of course, which was for the best. Castiel settled down after about ten minutes of Hotchner's calm questions. Hotchner is betting that Dr. Katz has a lot to do with that – his reactions to questions about Winchester are far different from that first day, when he'd hardly been able to get out the necessary words. It's not effortless, precisely, but a result of practice.

It's reassuring to know that Castiel has come so far, and that he agrees with Dr. Katz's assessment of Castiel's readiness for desk duty. Castiel did everything right in the interview, on the surface.

The debrief is on a digital recorder lying on Hotchner's desk, next to the folder he'd taken notes in. He won't put the recording in the database. It will remain in his office, secure. Everything official will be done based on his notes.

He flips open the folder to the first comment he'd written: _Speaks easily and with affect._ Castiel had started out without tripping over any words, while still showing restrained emotion – sometimes conflict, sometimes fear or shame.

Castiel detailed his kidnapping in language Hotchner uses every day. That Castiel used every day. With one exception – he never called Winchester the suspect or unsub, which makes sense. Castiel knows who committed every crime.

Still. Something about the way Castiel always said Winchester's name. Dean. There's an intimacy there.

"He's safe at home," Morgan says, entering Hotchner's office. He's referring to Castiel, who he drove here and back. He also stayed during the debrief, at Castiel's request.

Hotchner nods. "Good. Have a seat."

"What do you think?" Morgan asks, obeying. He lounges in the usual ease of movement that Morgan always has, but he looks at Hotchner with intensity. "He seemed mostly truthful to me."

"Mostly being the key word," Hotchner says. "I'm approving his return to desk duty. I'm not overly concerned with his ability to do his job."

"This is about the missing bits," Morgan guesses. "I noticed them, too."

"It's not uncommon for a victim to hold back information they don't perceive as relevant, or simply don't want to share." Hotchner shakes his head. "This is more about Castiel as our friend. I'm not here as unit chief. You're not here as an SSA."

Morgan slouches in his seat, clearly thinking. Hotchner waits. "His explanation of how Winchester kept him prisoner is interesting. I wouldn't have figured that kind of sophistication with Winchester's MO, though he made a compelling argument that Winchester would be able to do it."

Hotchner flips through his notes. _DW put cuff on CN with signaler that locked doors. DW slowly increased allowed rooms as CN gained trust. Three escape attempts. 1: didn't realize signaler existed. 2: disabled signaler (how? No details). 3: removed cuff (no details, implied DW did so). Cuff was replaced with GPS version during public appearances; CN sedated during this process. DW also claimed the cuff to be spelled._

Morgan quotes Castiel from memory: "'Dean isn't unintelligent, or even uneducated. He regularly built his own tools, partially out of cost, partially for the challenge, and he built his car from the ground up more than once.'" He pauses, and adds, "'He could debate almost any intellectual topic I wanted.' Castiel respects Dean on some level."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing in a profiler," Hotchner points out.

"It's a red flag in a victim, even for a victim that's also an FBI agent," Morgan says, spreading his hands. "To me it calls back to what he said the first day after he escaped – that he didn't want to tell us what we needed to catch Winchester. What if he's hiding something else? He knows us, our methods. It could be the smallest thing."

"Have you discussed these concerns with Castiel?" Hotchner asks. "I thought it interesting he wanted you present."

Morgan shakes his head. "No. I had a talk with him that, well, is private." Morgan rubs his jaw. "Though I suppose I could tell you the gist."

"If you don't feel it's betraying Castiel's trust."

"There wasn't an explicit promise," Morgan says slowly. "It's been hard for Castiel to come to terms with the fact that he has a right to hate Winchester."

Hotchner blinks. "He feels there's a reason he shouldn't?"

"From what I gather, yes. Though that's purely from the gaps in what he says."

Hotchner considers that. Castiel knew Winchester's history of crimes as well as any of them, and that was before being kidnapped. Given the fact that Castiel says he knows Winchester very well and feels comfortable predicting Winchester's actions – that he wouldn't attack the police station or the hospital for fear of hitting 'civilians' – he must now know even more. "Even taking aside Winchester's crimes against Castiel personally …"

"Yeah, I know," Morgan says with a grimace. "The weird thing is, Castiel doesn't reference those at all when he talks about Winchester. It's like they don't exist."

Hotchner had not noticed that. "Interesting."

"It's a little weird. More than a little."

"But at the same time, he feels he can't hate Winchester?" Hotchner asks.

"Yeah, almost like –" Morgan stops. "Almost like he thinks Winchester is innocent. Except he's clearly not, and Castiel has proof of that at least where it regards himself."

"He's never claimed Winchester to be innocent. Even with Balthazar, he'd only say that 'it wasn't like that' or that we couldn't understand. That implies to me that there's something we're missing, not necessarily that Castiel believes Winchester to be guiltless in some form."

"What about the tat?"

That was something else Castiel confessed to during the meeting, though Hotchner hasn't seen it yet – Castiel will of course have to submit a picture for records. All FBI agents are required to inform the FBI of any tattoos, and by regulation they can't be visible. Castiel's is on the side of his abdomen, so it's not like the tattoo being visible is ever likely to be a problem – he'd have to be shirtless for someone to see it – but Castiel went twenty years in law enforcement without getting a tattoo. Why one now, and such an odd one? "He said it was a symbol of protection."

"And when has Castiel ever showed the slightest bit of superstition?"

Hotchner frowns, leaning back in his chair.

"But Winchester does."

"Morgan –"

Morgan sits forward, elbows on knees. "Look, Castiel is my friend. I'm not trying to draw suspicion on him. But he is hiding something. And I'm afraid, for him, about what that could be. Not just something that could damage his career, but something that could put him directly in danger."

"In sum, he's hiding something about Winchester, and maybe protecting him?"

"That some part of him feels sympathy for Winchester, or Winchester's cause, or some weird mix of the two. Or maybe he thinks some of the supernatural that Winchester rants about is real. That might explain the tat."

"Castiel isn't psychotic or delusional –"

"I'm not saying he is. I'm saying that psychopath held him for eighteen months, and he's been back five." Morgan lets out a breath, rolling his head back and staring at the ceiling. "I don't know."

Hotchner thinks about that. They've been tip-toeing around the topic, but Castiel definitely had Stockholm Syndrome. Dr. Katz couldn't confirm – Castiel didn't give her permission to share any details of their sessions – but Hotchner has seen it enough times to recognize it in Castiel's mindset regarding Winchester. A lot of the clearer symptoms have faded and Castiel was able, during the debrief, to use the words 'rape' and 'kidnapping.' "Do you think he's recovered?"

"From Stockholm Syndrome? Mostly." Morgan grimaces. "Mostly being the key word."

"But do you think he'll do anything to protect Winchester?" Hotchner's impression was that Castiel wouldn't. Castiel doesn't want to hurt Winchester, but he's also accepted that may be out of his control. CN: DW isn't CN's responsibility. CN believes DW's case should be handled by others. Calm affect.

Morgan hesitates. "At least not directly. I still think he's not telling us something, but the fact he doesn't want to be involved in Winchester's case at all is encouraging. In the end, I think we should just all keep an eye on him and make sure he continues to be stable."

"I agree," Hotchner says. "Let me know if you think of anything else."

Morgan nods, recognizing the dismissal and getting up. "I will."

Hotchner is left alone with the recorder and his notes. He flips through them again. _CN: DW's delusions were internally logical. CN: doesn't remember special brands on items; no access to kitchen; items given opened in most cases. CN: allowed outside property on supervision (GPS cuff? No explanation); back of property, no access to road. No sign of mail or addresses used. And, CN claims DW not purposefully abusive; DW abused as child and adult ("I suspect he was raped"). CN: explanation for DW's behavior towards CN._

It's not out of the ordinary, and in some ways even expected, for Castiel to feel some amount of sympathy for Winchester. Castiel was very clear about the fact that Winchester was not frequently abusive, and would repeatedly make seemingly kind gestures by giving Castiel material items, making him homemade meals, and other luxuries. When directly asked, Castiel also admitted that he suffered tremendously from the isolation and emotional manipulation that Winchester inflicted.

He grabs the digital recorder and goes to the beginning of hour two, and hits play.

He hears his own voice first. _"I want to ask you a couple of questions about your phone call to Balthazar, during your captivity."_

 _"All right,"_ Castiel replies uneasily, his words softer on the tape.

 _"You said, 'I want to go home, but you can't hurt Dean.' What did you mean by that?"_

There's static as Castiel is silent for several long seconds. _"Even at that point, I had become … emotionally entangled with Dean. I cared about him. I didn't want to do anything to hurt him. Even my will to escape at any cost was, well … fading."_

"At any cost?"

"His death, primarily."

"Do you still feel that way?"

Hotchner asks on the tape.

 _"It's – it's not my responsibility to make sure Dean isn't hurt. He's committed crimes, and the course of the criminal justice system decides that. Not me."_

There's a pause on the tape that Hotchner knows is him examining Castiel's expression. Looking for tells and tics. He didn't find any. _"Did you ever fail to take an opportunity to escape, out of fear of hurting Dean?"_

Castiel looked away then. _"Yes. I'd rather not discuss the circumstances. But I no longer feel that way. Being free has been, it's made me rethink a lot of things. Really realize how fucked up my head became."_

"I understand. For the sake of knowing your mind now, though, I have to ask if, in the course of an investigation it turned out to be one of Dean's, you would be able to defend yourself and anyone around you."

Castiel's shaky breath is audible. _"During my third escape attempt, when the cuff was off. I tried to run, but Dean beat me. He beat the shit out of me, actually. That's when I got that severe concussion the doctors had to give me an MRI for."_ Castiel pauses. _"He dragged me down that fifty-foot hallway, while I sobbed and begged him – I_ begged _him – to let me go. To have my freedom. And he forced me back to that cuff and made me put it back on."_ Hotchner remembers how Castiel had looked at him, pain in his eyes, but also determination. _"No, Hotch. I will never let Dean hurt me or anyone else like that ever again."_

Hotchner stops the tape.

Missing bits. That's all there is. The team will keep a close eye on Castiel's recovery, and that should be enough.

 _CN: wants DW to be caught._

* * *

The strangest thing is that Quantico hasn't changed at all.

It has the same rectangular, beige buildings. Aside from the giant sign at the entrance, there's not a lot that tells anyone this is the FBI Academy. That Castiel worked here for a year, with the BAU. Castiel got very used to coming here, in between cases that sent him all over the country. The same guard is at the entrance, checking ID's and passes. Walking down the so very familiar hallways makes him feel, in a weird way, like the twenty-one months he spent away didn't happen. Even though he was with the BAU for only a year, this was his home. Particularly now that Morgan isn't here, guiding him.

He gets a few weird looks and whispers on the way to the BAU's set of offices, but he does his best to ignore them.

When he steps into the corner of offices that the BAU inhabits, JJ is the first to see him. She breaks into a bright smile, puts down the folder she was reading and gives him a hug. "It's good to see you back," she says. "Ready to die in paperwork?"

Castiel laughs. "Yes. More than ready, at this point, I'd do anything to kill the boredom."

"Like killing the rest of your sanity?" Morgan asks, coming around a corner. "Hey, man." He gives Castiel a one-armed hug and claps him on the back.

Castiel will fulfill a role that previously had been spread across the team, while he's on desk duty. He'll examine all incoming cases and decide which ones the BAU will focus on and their level of involvement, with some cases requiring phone calls, advice on trials or interrogations, and some requiring the presence of the BAU. Coordinating that with local police had been JJ's job once, but during the few years when the BAU's team was in upheaval due to outside politics, the responsibility had been spread across team members. Since Castiel will be staying in Quantico, it makes sense for him to take over that and any other paperwork that doesn't require Hotchner's signature.

"Oh, sweetie!" Penelope Garcia is loud in her bright pink polka dot dress. A fluffy thing that Castiel can't identify is settled like a flower in her hair. She hugs him, too, and holds on tight. Her next words are a quick stream. "I've checked and rechecked everything, there is no that bitch is getting back into my systems, and if she tries I will be on her butt like – like a bat out of hell. Every byte of data about you is safe, I swear."

Castiel puts his hands on her shoulders lightly. "I believe you, Penelope. Don't worry. That wasn't your fault."

"My systems, Castiel," Penelope says, pain in her eyes. "It is my fault. But," she adds with more perk, "one that will never be repeated."

Hotchner comes out of his office at that point. He waits for Penelope to take a deep breath and then offers Castiel his hand. "Glad to have you back," he says simply, as is his way.

"Me, too," Castiel says with a slight smile.

Rossi comes in with a box of donuts, looking slightly distracted. It takes him a few moments to realize Castiel is there, then he grins. "Donut?"

* * *

Three days later, Castiel curls up in bed with Aditi's head on his lap. He strokes her head, rubbing around her ears. If Aditi was a cat, she'd be purring, but instead she's slowly slobbering over his leg. Castiel can't bring himself to mind; he's been up nearly twenty-four hours. Yes, he's not in the field, but he supports a team that is in the field. He's no Penelope Garcia, of course, but he assists the team with research while they're out talking to witnesses. He looks at old case files. He comes up with alternative theories the team could use.

That case is over now. The unsub is in jail, awaiting formal charges. Hotchner sent everyone to either the local hotel or home for a day's rest. That includes Castiel.

He stumbles to his feet from the couch, Aditi whining at her resting place being disturbed. Castiel shambles over to his bedroom, strips, and collapses into bed. This is the first time since coming back that he's had to work long hours. Castiel slept so consistently during his captivity and right after – with no work, no responsibilities for months – that it's a surprisingly hard adjustment to make. Did he really use to do this for weeks on end?

He flops over to his side. The bed shakes when Aditi jumps up to join him, and Castiel's hand, reaching for the alarm clock, instead hits paper.

A card.

Castiel picks it up. It's Stephen Bailey's card, stockbroker. On the back is scribbled his cell number. Without letting himself think it through too much – going with the impulse instead of questioning it – he grabs his cell phone and sends a simple text.

 _This is Castiel. Still want to catch up sometime?_

Castiel's nearly asleep when he gets the reply. _I'd love to._

* * *

Castiel and Stephen exchange harmless, flirting texts the next few days. The last one has Castiel up nearly all night before he says yes – a request for a date. Castiel is bleary eyed the next morning, so much so that the lady at the donut shop actually asks him if it's safe for him to drive. He downs the coffee in four large gulps and says yes.

He feels a little more human by the time he actually gets in the office. He sets the dozen donuts on JJ's desk and wonders where everyone is. He checks Hotchner's office first, then the conference room the team uses, but both are empty. Confused, he finally heads for Penelope's office, and finds them crowded in there. He knocks on the doorway and Penelope jumps, a pen flying out of her hand.

Hotchner simply faces him. "Good morning, Castiel."

"What's going on?" Castiel asks, finally feeling suspicious.

"I found her," Penelope says, turning in her chair. JJ and Morgan back off a little bit so Castiel can see her. Penelope picks up the pen and starts twisting it. "Well, I didn't find her exactly. I found out how to contact her."

Castiel blinks. "Charlie?" Then, "Is there a time frame?"

"Yeah," Penelope admits, popping the feather-duster cap off the pen, then on again, repeatedly. "Probably no more than a few hours before she switches online identities again, based on my close calls. Maybe a lot less. And I mean, I'm not sure sure it's her. I'm fairly sure, but not totally sure. I'm totally basing it on how she hacks, you know, because she hacked me, so of course I studied everything about how she did it and I monitor a bunch of sites and the same pattern emerged and I followed her to a Wizard of Oz forum which is really weird but –"

"Penelope," Castiel says, when no one else interrupts her. "If you say it's her, then I believe you."

Penelope smiles painfully. "You're a sweetie." She looks at Hotchner. "But I don't know what to do now."

"Based on what you said about her," JJ begins, "she doesn't know how her hacking was used? You said that he said she wouldn't approve of kidnapping you?"

Castiel nods, an uneasy roiling beginning in his stomach. "Yes."

"It's possible we could turn her," JJ says, looking from Castiel to the others, still crowded around Penelope's desk.

"Castiel's case was on the news," Rossi adds. "How could she not have seen that? We had Winchester's face plastered over most of the Midwest."

Castiel can't say she'd probably dismiss it as a misunderstanding based on some weird supernatural event. So he offers a random thought: "Maybe she's not in the States."

Rossi nods at Castiel, eyebrows raised. "Could be."

"The better question is what we do now," Hotchner interrupts gently. "We need to decide how to approach speaking to her. Castiel, can you remember anything else that Dean mentioned about this Charlie?"

"About her? No." Feeling the need to be honest, he continues, "But I'm fairly certain she kept in contact with him during my captivity. Dean didn't have many friends, but there was always someone he'd talk to out of my hearing, every few weeks or once a month."

Hotchner turns to Penelope. "Based on what you know about her skills, do you think she's culturally a hacker? That she travels in those circles?"

"Hmm, probably," Penelope says, biting her lip.

"Then it might be best for you to talk to her. You would have the most in common with her, from what we know."

"Me?" Penelope squeaks. "Are you sure?"

"If you feel up to it, I think you should," Hotchner says. "We'll be present to back you up."

"I want to be there," Castiel insists. "Here."

Hotchner acquiesces immediately. "All right. Garcia, can you set us up to talk to her in the conference room? I'd also like to have Winchester's case file available if we need it."

"Yes, sir," Penelope says, brightening with focus and the ability to get something done.

Within five minutes, Penelope has transferred her laptop – presumably connected to her system in her office – and has that screen showing up on the conference room screen. Like Penelope said, Charlie is on a Wizard of Oz forum, using their chat feature. Castiel's guessing that she's disguising her IP or some other tricky thing that Castiel doesn't understand, because Penelope doesn't seem to think there's a good chance of tracking her at the moment, despite having communication with her. In theory, anyway.

Lastly, Penelope sets up an account and says, "Ready."

Hotchner nods at her, knowing they have limited time to go over this. "Say hello."

 _Pinkpolkadots: Hello._

Glindasalesbian: Who dis?

"Umm …" Penelope trails off.

"Tell her we're a friend of Dean's," Castiel suggests, knowing what to do. And not stopping himself. He needs to see this through. He needs to feel safe. "To start out with. If she knows we're law enforcement, she might stop talking immediately."

 _Pinkpolkadots: A friend of Dean's._

Glindasalesbian: Dean's a tech idiot. He wouldn't have the slightest clue how to find me, much less parse out usernames. So how did you?

"Because I'm good at what I do, honey," Penelope says out loud.

"Say you meant Dean on a hunt," Castiel suggests. "Say he helped you. You wanted to know if he needed a hacker friend and he said no."

This time, Penelope looks at Hotchner first. Castiel's not insulted; he's not a field agent, and this kind of counts.

"Do as he says," Hotchner says, more thoughtful than commanding.

 _Pinkpolkadots: Dean helped me. He mentioned you, though not very specifically. Said he already had a hacker friend._

"Tell her you're worried about him," Castiel says. "That you'd like to talk about something you heard."

"You seem to know just what to say," Morgan interjects.

"I know Dean's beliefs in the paranormal, his friends would share it," Castiel says calmly. And that's true. Dean's friends know him as a hunter, not a criminal.

Hotchner raises a hand as if to interrupt. "Go ahead, Garcia."

 _Pinkpolkadots: I don't know him super well, but I'm worried. I heard something really weird and wanted to know if it's true._

Glindasalesbian: What?

"Tell her about me," Castiel says. "Point out it's been on the news. All of that."

 _Pinkpolkadots: I heard he kidnapped an FBI agent._

Glindasalesbian: Wut. Dean wouldn't.

Pinkpolkadots: It was all over the news. I found it just by searching his name. The FBI's after him, especially now that the guy kidnapped escaped.

Glindasalesbian: If Dean helped you, you know there's another explanation.

"Ask her –" Castiel begins, but Penelope keeps typing.

 _Pinkpolkadots: But what?_

Castiel nods. Nearly two minutes with no reply. Castiel shifts in his seat, his own nervousness rising.

 _Glindasalesbian: Fuck. What is he doing?_

"Tell her to ask Dean for an explanation," Castiel says.

"Are you sure that's wise? We should turn her against him now, while we have a hold of her. Once Winchester starts lying, we may never have this chance again," Morgan says.

Castiel shakes his head. "Trust me. He won't lie."

Hotchner eyes Castiel a long moment, then nods at Penelope.

 _Pinkpolkadots: You know Dean, right? Ask him what's up._

Glindasalesbian: Don't try to trace me, I'll dc automatically. Brb.

"If she can't get a hold of him, you should suggest talking more later. Some – hacker thing where she feels secure you won't catch her," Castiel suggests.

JJ speaks up for the first time. "But shouldn't we catch her? We've already got her on hacking the FBI, that's a federal crime. We can leverage that to get her to turn on Winchester."

"I don't know if I can catch her," Penelope confesses. "Block off all avenues of accessing my system, sure. Catch her? I dunno. I'm good, so is she. I might be able to trace her, or figure out her real name, but I can't guarantee it. She's not like a perp, doing this sort of thing regularly, as far as I can tell. Sorry." Penelope gives them all a pained look.

"Let's see what she does," Hotchner decides. It's a good ten minute wait, and Penelope spends the time in another window, presumably checking to see if she can trace Charlie.

 _Glindasalesbian: Ajdkl; fuck fuck fuck fuck_

"He told her the truth," Morgan guesses.

Castiel exhales. He leans back in his chair and watches the screen.

 _Glindasalesbian: I didn't know god I didn't know when I gave the file I didn't know_

 _Glindasalesbian: Is he ok?_

 _Glindasalesbian: You're not a friend of Dean's_

 _Glindasalesbian: You're FBI_

"Tell her the truth," but it's not Castiel who says it, instead it's Hotchner.

 _Pinkpolkadots: Yes. Castiel is –_ "Recovering?" Penelope guesses. When Castiel nods, she continues, _Castiel is recovering. But we need to catch Dean to make sure he's safe._ Penelope pauses, then adds on her own, _He suffered a lot. I saw him only a few days after he escaped, and he was hurting._

 _Glindasalesbian: I don't know, fuck I don't_

 _Glindasalesbian: He and Sam saved the world_

 _Glindasalesbian: I'm not delusional_

 _Glindasalesbian: But fuck_

 _Glindasalesbian: If I turn him in_

But there isn't more. "Pressure her," Hotchner says. "'If Dean admitted to you his crimes, shouldn't he be responsible for them?'"

Penelope types it out.

 _Glindasalesbian: Yes._

 _Glindasalesbian has logged off._

"Dammit." Morgan stands up, wiping his mouth. He paces a few times, frustration emanating from him like a dark cloud.

"She hasn't said no," Castiel says, still sitting. Thoughtful. "She's thinking." Thinking about turning Dean in. That sets loose a shiver of fear, but he can't tell if it's for himself or Dean. If he wants her to, or to refuse.

"I agree." Hotchner turns to Penelope, who is slumped over her keyboard.

"I'm sorry," Penelope says.

"Don't be. You did well," Hotchner tells her. "Try to find this Charlie, see if you can trace her or find her name. Don't get caught, if possible, but don't compromise any opportunities to find her. There's a decent chance she'll contact us on her own, so be prepared for that as well."

Penelope is nodding frantically. "I can do that."

"The rest of us will try to profile her," Hotchner continues. "It may not be useful on the limited information we have, but it could be a resource to you. Castiel, I'll want your help for that. You never met her, but you know Dean, and if she's had prolonged contact with him, that's our best insight."

Castiel nods his understanding.

Everyone scatters except Morgan, with a few giving him worried and sympathetic looks. But only Morgan stays, like by some silent agreement he gets the job of making sure Castiel is doing okay. "Castiel?" Morgan asks. "You good?"

"Honestly? I think so." Castiel glances at the conference screen. He can't say his private hopes, but he can tell one truth. "I think there's a good chance Dean lost her as a resource."

Morgan claps him on the shoulder. "One at a time."

Castiel smiles up at him. "Yes, I suppose so."

* * *

Castiel's paying his bills on his laptop when a Comcast representative called Glinda somehow begins a chat.

His heart nearly stops beating. Totally illogically, he looks up around his living room, then grabs his gun and places it next to his laptop, which sits on the kitchen table.

 _Glinda: Don't freak. I'm not here to turn Dean on you._

 _Guest: I'm supposed to believe that?_

 _Glinda: I'm sorry. I didn't know what Dean did to you. I wasn't in the US when it happened. When any of it happened. And that fucker lied to me._

 _Guest: Why did you track me down? You must know where I live now, if you've got access to my billing._

 _Glinda: Look, I know it's fucked to hell, but it's the only way I could figure out how to talk to you without your buds at the FBI noticing. I promise on my LIFE that Dean doesn't know where you are._

 _Guest: Okay. What do you want?_

There's a long pause where Glinda doesn't answer. Then, _Glinda: Dean said you already know where he is. So I don't know if I turn him in, if that means anything. If that's what you want. Dean said, and I can't believe I'm typing what that asshole said, but he said that it should all be up to you. That you should have control. I'd turn the bastard in myself, but he insisted that wouldn't be doing right by you if that's not what you want._

Does Dean believe that Castiel will save him?

Castiel removes his hands from the keyboard, thinking. In a way, he wishes this weren't his decision. But in another, he's viciously glad to have Dean's life in his hands again. He's glad that Dean understands that control was the one thing Dean always took from him. And yet, he told Hotchner – and he wasn't lying – that he didn't want the responsibility of catching Dean. That he wanted that to be left to the justice system.

 _Guest: Leave him hanging. I know where he is. If I want him caught, I know how to do it. But I want something from you._

 _Glinda: Anything. I helped a monster._

 _Guest: Never help him again. Make sure no one else does, either._

 _Glinda: Done._

And Castiel believes her.

Castiel's safe. Dean can find Castiel through blind luck, but that's truly his only option now. He can't get Charlie to hack the FBI again. He can't get Castiel's records. That resource is gone. And that's really all Castiel wants. He really doesn't want the FBI to catch Charlie; he still thinks she's innocent in this whole mess. Dean is … not innocent. But Castiel doesn't want to be the agent of Dean's capture.

He finally looks at Charlie's last message before logging off, tears of relief in his eyes.

 _Glinda: I don't think you have to worry about sharing heaven with Dean. He's going to hell._

* * *

Without letting himself think about why, Castiel gets a burner phone that can make phone calls untraced.

* * *

Castiel changes his clothes four times.

It's summer, so he finally decides to go with a nice pair of black slacks and a dark blue shirt, with the top buttons undone. The color nearly matches his eyes. It looks … almost casual. He looks like someone going on a date, he's pretty sure. Stephen offered to pick him up, but Castiel's still paranoid about people knowing where he lives, so he politely declined and said he'd meet him at the restaurant. He did a basic background check on Stephen, of course, and found nothing, but that's not quite enough to reassure him.

Said restaurant ends up being a rather relaxed, sit-down bar and grill, but the assortment of people there are random enough that Castiel doesn't look out of place.

"Castiel?"

Castiel turns and sees Stephen there. He smiles and approaches, feeling more nervous than he does when approaching a suspect. He doesn't have the buzz from alcohol to relax him through this. Stephen's actually in a dark pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but Castiel is trained to notice how people react, and he sees the way Stephen's eyes linger over Castiel's body. "Hello, Stephen."

Stephen steps into Castiel's space slowly. Obviously slowly, but he still reaches for Castiel's hand – not a handshake, but to hold. "I'm told we have a five minute wait."

Castiel takes Stephen's hand. "All right. How was your week?" He doesn't look at their joined hands, heart still beating fast.

"Stressful," Stephen says wryly. "Very much so. I'm hoping yours went a lot easier than mine. You said you started work?"

"Yes. But it's been good so far. And, well, it's desk work. Only so much excitement is possible."

Stephen groans. "Doesn't seem that way to me. But then I get excited by numbers, so I'm probably the odd one."

Something loosens in Castiel's chest. "Maybe you are. Takes a gun to get my heart racing."

Stephen raises an eyebrow. "I'll keep that in mind."

Castiel blushes.

Dinner is good. The meal and the company. Stephen patiently makes jokes until Castiel relaxes, though by the end he's reaching to have the jokes make sense. That kind of instinctual understanding of what Castiel needs is soothing, though in some ways familiar. Dean took longer to learn, but he did learn. And of course Castiel doesn't want to compare Stephen to Dean, he really doesn't, but he can't seem to prevent it. All he can do is stop himself from dwelling on it when it comes, and focus on what Stephen is saying.

Because of his background, in some ways Castiel is able to take what Stephen says about his life and opinions and make it into an overall profile on his psychology. But at the same time, Castiel knows that a really deep understanding of someone takes time. And to know the truth of someone takes even longer. To know the missteps and flaws of a person's life, and integrate that into the whole.

Crime scenes, unintentional or not, often show truth. Dinner dates, not so much.

But Stephen is a good guy. He's driven by the need to be successful at work primarily, but he's searched for a life partner for nearly ten years, sometimes obsessively, sometimes not. In the end, although Stephen won't object to fun, he's in it for a long-term relationship, not a one-night stand. And that matches Castiel. Castiel never dated purely for pleasure. He dated with a purpose, to find a spouse. The failures of his past relationships all taught him more about what he needed, but also what a spouse would need.

Castiel doesn't know yet if he wants Stephen to be more than fun. But he wouldn't have said yes to a date if there wasn't a possibility of it. That Stephen wants that too is reassuring.

So Castiel explores Stephen's quirks, while revealing some of his own. Stephen came out right as he got into swimming. Which resulted in some hilarious awkwardness, which Stephen focuses on rather than the few incidents of pushing and name-calling. Castiel had to describe himself as 'completely oblivious to men' until recently. They talk about films. Castiel hasn't seen anything new in a year, and Stephen promises to let him know which ones are worth the time.

"You know, for someone who doesn't seem totally out of the closet yet, you're actually very relaxed," Stephen says at one point.

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"Phrases you've used," Stephen says. "Your colleagues 'wouldn't' care. I may not be a profiler, but I'm observant, too."

Castiel smiles into his Coke. "It's not a secret," Castiel finally decides. "I don't want to give you that impression. I wouldn't do that."

"Well, that makes things easier," Stephen admits. "I didn't mean to offend you, just been there and done that. It causes a lot of relationship stress." Stephen shifts a bit. "I mean, if you're open to more." Their plates are nearly scraped clean. He licks his lips – thin but shapely – and meets Castiel's gaze. "I'd like to see you again."

"I don't work tomorrow," Castiel says carefully. "Why does this date have to end?"

Stephen blinks, but grins. "Yogurt shop for dessert?"

"How about your place?" It's very bold, very bold, and it takes a lot more will to get out than the last girlfriend he said it to.

Stephen leans back slowly. "I've got a tub of Rocky Road in my freezer."

A couple of hasty kisses later that ended with Stephen paying for dinner, and Castiel's out the door and in his car, Stephen's address in hand.

Does he intend on having sex with Stephen? He traces the wheel for several long seconds before turning his keys. Maybe. Maybe he does.

Stephen's apartment is a lot nicer than Castiel's.

All the appliances are gleaming stainless steel, and Castiel is pretty sure he had the place professionally decorated. Also, that either the decorator or Stephen's favorite color is red. It's sparse in the modern sense, with just enough color and line to be pretty to the eye, without being distracting or crowded. It fits Stephen's lifestyle.

Castiel sits on the couch, which is surprisingly comfortable, watching Stephen go for the freezer, take out that tub of Rocky Road he mentioned, and dish it into two bowls, with two spoons. He hums something as he does it, a tune Castiel doesn't recognize. When he turns, he has a gentle, amused smile on his face. And – hopeful. He sits next to Castiel on the couch, and grabs a spoonful of ice cream.

Castiel does the same, then licks his clean.

Stephen falters, watching.

Castiel puts his bowl on the coffee table and then leans forward and kisses him. Stephen moans into his mouth, the bowl going somewhere else with a clatter, and brings his hands up to Castiel's waist, pulling him in. Castiel straddles Stephen and deepens the kiss, practically fucking Stephen's mouth. Stephen kisses differently this time, a lot more forceful, but he thinks there's only a desire to arouse in it, wanting Castiel to be as turned on as he is.

When Castiel lowers his body onto Stephen's, he can feel Stephen's erection, bulging under his pants. Stephen moans again and pulls Castiel's shirt out of his pants, running his hands up Castiel's bare back.

Arousal is primary. Castiel knows he's got some secondary panic and fear, not the kind where he fears rape or violation, just – just _fear_. Of the unknown, maybe. But he doesn't intend on letting that stop him. He explores Stephen's upper body, running his palms up Stephen's shirt, finding a hairy chest. It makes him pause for a second, and Stephen whispers into his ear, "I can shave if you like. Later."

Castiel shakes his head. He withdraws far enough to look at Stephen's gray eyes, and then pulls off Stephen's shirt.

Stephen picks at Castiel's, asks, "May I?"

Castiel nods.

Stephen carefully undoes each button, before sliding the shirt off. He traces Castiel's tattoo with curious fingers, faintly ticklish, and Castiel jerks a bit. Stephen grins, says, "I'll have to keep in mind you're ticklish."

"Keep in mind I have martial arts training," Castiel replies, his voice surprisingly steady. He's hard, and he grinds down, letting Stephen that wasn't a warning. Not about now.

Stephen thrusts up a bit against Castiel's ass, and then leans forward and takes Castiel's right nipple into his mouth.

And Castiel flashes back to the first time Dean touched him that way, his fingers sliding across Castiel's nipple. That first, terrifying time that Castiel kissed Dean back. He remembers the sensation of Dean's calloused hands, so different from Stephen's soft ones, and he remembers the smell of Dean's cheap shampoo, and the soft cotton sheets under him, and the cold cuff on his ankle.

Stephen picks up on him freezing and withdraws, his hands still on Castiel's hips. "Castiel?"

Castiel is suddenly hit with the sensation of – of guilt. That he's cheating. On Dean. "I – I – I'm fine." He reaches down between Stephen's legs, rubbing his cock.

Stephen grabs his hand to stop him. "I don't think –"

 _I did that,_ Castiel thinks, _I did that with Dean,_ and that's enough to have scrambling away, scrambling to the floor, crawling on his hands and knees away. He stops in the middle of the carpet, taking heaving breaths that won't slow. Slowly, slowly, he curls his knees up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them.

Stephen's still on the couch, his hands up like Castiel's got a gun on him. "Okay, okay. I'm okay. Castiel, I won't come closer. But I need you to talk to me."

Castiel looks up at him. Stephen looks half concerned and half terrified in that concern. "I'm sorry." And he begins to cry.

Stephen nods, and then nods again. "No need to be sorry. We got a little farther than intended, all right? Would you like some water?"

Tears half-blinding him, Castiel can't even answer, not even to nod. He feels – he feels miserable, and foolish, and guilty. He can hear Stephen moving in the room, but he doesn't fear Stephen knocking him over the head and dragging him to the bedroom, or even being touched. He knows this is him, all him, him being fucked up. The tears stop, but he keeps his eyes squeezed shut until there's the sound of Stephen coming closer.

After a few minutes of cursing himself, he sees Stephen kneel in front of him, shirt on again. He has a bottle of water in his hand, still sealed. He offers it to Castiel.

Castiel takes it, but ends up just gripping it hard. Finally, he says again, "I'm sorry."

"Do you want to talk?" Stephen asks. He settles about six feet away, cross-legged on the floor.

Castiel closes his eyes for a second. "It's a long story." It's as polite a dismissal he can manage.

"Castiel. I know you've been hiding something. Is this about your abusive ex? Is he why you weren't working?"

Maybe he should tell Stephen. He probably deserves an explanation, after Castiel freaking out from a sexual moment he started. "Ex isn't the word I'd use, exactly." Castiel adds slowly, "It's not what the FBI used." He looks up, to Stephen's concerned face.

Stephen swallows uncomfortably. "I see." And he waits.

"I was …" Castiel hesitates, but continues on, "we were hunting a serial killer in Wyoming. He'd been active all over the United States, for years, but that was the first time I worked on his case. We didn't catch him. Three weeks after we returned home, he kidnapped me from my apartment."

"Oh, God," Stephen says quietly.

"He held me prisoner for eighteen months. Said I was his soulmate. We – we had sex. It wasn't rape like he tied me down, because he never did that. Instead he just – " Castiel stops, his words failing him. "I escaped a little more than four months ago."

Stephen exhales, shaking a little. "And he was your first experience with a man."

Castiel nods.

"God, Castiel, I'm so sorry," Stephen says.

"The stupid thing is that I feel like I'm cheating on him. Because sometimes, sometimes I still want him," Castiel whispers. "Most of the time that I was his prisoner, I was content." Castiel smiles painfully. "He was deeply disturbed, but he never hurt me on purpose. Honestly, I don't think he even entirely understands what he did to me." Castiel looks down at his water bottle.

"Well." Stephen pauses. "Well, fuck him. That's what I say. I know my experience is nothing compared to yours, but I had a boyfriend try to hit me before. I left his ass and told everyone I knew why. He even lost his job over that. And he deserved it. You don't hit – you don't hurt someone like that and get to say it wasn't that bad."

"You're right," Castiel says quietly. "I know you are." Castiel shivers, feeling cold.

"Here, um, let me get you your shirt," Stephen says hastily, finding it across the room and giving it back to Castiel.

"I should go home," Castiel says, still feeling a little blank. This is what he's supposed to do, isn't it? After he's embarrassed himself, confessed he'd been kidnapped and Dean. Well. He'd confessed to Dean. He stands up, shirt in hand.

"Are you sure you should be driving? At least let me call you a cab," Stephen says. He holds up his hands. "I'm just concerned. People don't drive right when they're as upset as you are right now. Actually … are you sure you should be alone?"

"If you could call me a cab," Castiel says, putting his shirt on and fumbling with the buttons. "And I'm – I'm really sorry. This isn't the kind of thing you expected to have dumped on you."

"Hey. Look at me."

Castiel does.

"It's okay. This isn't – well, if it matters to you, this isn't a dealbreaker for me."

Somehow feeling deeply ashamed, Castiel says, "Thank you."

Stephen stands up. "I'll get that cab here, and I'll pay, don't worry." He leaves to do just that.

Castiel finally manages to get himself dressed, and he even takes the water bottle and drinks from it. His throat is weirdly dry, and he finds himself draining the whole thing. Then he rubs his eyes, rubs the tear tracks from his face, and generally tries to make himself presentable.

Stephen returns and says, "He'll be here in five minutes. I'll walk you out, okay?"

The night is warm and slightly muggy, but Castiel stands at the sidewalk and shivers anyway. Stephen notices, he knows he does, but seems too uncomfortable to get close, and considering how Castiel fled from his lap like he was terrified out of his mind, Castiel doesn't blame him for keeping his distance. For all he knows, Castiel could lash out and break his arm or something.

"Text me," Stephen says when the cab comes. "And let me know you got home okay."

Castiel nods and gets in the cab.

His apartment is cold. He left the air conditioner on. He lets Aditi out to do her business on habit, feeling numb. Then he puts her in the bathroom for the night – he's trained her to either sleep there or in his bed – and then he sits there. Just sits there, on his bed.

He's aroused, but he doesn't know _what to do with it_. Maybe because he learned to be aroused by Dean even with all the complicated feelings that came with it, but he's still half-hard.

He slowly strips down until he's naked. He touches his cock, which is filling with blood, but not fully erect. He strokes himself several times, thumbing the head, watching as his cock thickens even more, until it's hard and curving towards his stomach. But it doesn't feel like enough – not enough to get him off. For that matter, he still feels queasy, but his cock doesn't seem to care.

Then he thinks about what he bought two weeks ago. Nearly on auto-pilot, he goes to the closet, to where he stuffed that black, nondescript bag in the back, like he was ashamed of it.

In it is a dildo. Black. Curved, like a real cock, and it even has fake balls.

He goes to his bed. He learned to enjoy this with Dean. Dean trained him to enjoy anal sex. Of course he knew what Dean was doing, pairing one pleasurable activity with one less desired. It matches the two in the mind, and it's a common behavioral technique. Self-help books even tell people to do the same thing on themselves, when trying to teach themselves an unpleasant but necessary habit. Castiel's reasoning at the time was that he was having sex with Dean anyway, so it made sense to him to enjoy all aspects of sex with a man.

Now that he's out, now that he's free … does he still want that?

He grabs lube and sits on the bed. He takes a deep breath and then reaches behind himself with slick fingers, opening himself up with one, two, then three fingers. The sensation is eerily familiar – not something he's explored since his escape – and he moans. Then, on his knees, he puts the dildo at his entrance and pushes it in, inch by inch. Until the fake balls are seated against his ass.

He pulls out. Then pushes in. Roughly. The stretch burns a little, but his cock jerks.

He fucks himself with the dildo, feeling his orgasm approaching. It's both pleasurable and not, like Dean and not. A particular hard thrust and he gasps out loud, saying, "Dean!" with semen spilling over his hand.

Taking out the dildo feels weird. It's still hard, not soft like Dean – Dean always waited until he was soft, before he took himself out. He lays there, panting, for several long minutes.

Then he feels rage. Rage like he wants to kill someone. Like if Dean were here, he'd attack and he doesn't know if he'd stop. And oh, he knows where Dean is. He could drive there right now, his private Glock in hand, and shoot Dean in the head.

He imagines it.

Dean standing there …

He misses Dean. He misses the good parts, the affection and love he felt for Dean and from Dean. He misses the companionship, he misses Dean's intelligence and drive. He misses finding hunts, and seeing supernatural patterns where he once just saw the randomness of statistics, or the coincidence of lives crashing into each other in weird ways. He misses the soft look in Dean's eyes when he would tell Castiel, "I love you."

He doesn't miss the isolation, the emotional manipulation, the loss of control over his own mind and body.

Does he miss Dean, or the way that Dean could make him feel? Safe and loved, wanted beyond all measure?

He gets up and walks to the kitchen. He reaches into an old pot he never uses, and takes out the burner phone. He dials a number he has memorized.

 _"This is Dean,"_ Dean says.

Castiel swallows. "I hate you."

 _"Oh. Cas, I –"_

"No! No, you don't get to fucking talk to me – you listen, you don't say a word. I listened to you and your bullshit for so long and you fucking owe me, Dean. You owe me."

Dean stays silent, but Castiel can hear him breathing.

"I hate what you've done to me. I can't even masturbate without thinking of you, of how you touched me, of how you trained me to be what you wanted. And I fucking let you, I let you, and I hate myself for that. I have nightmares, Dean, I have nightmares where you come back and you kidnap me again, and they end me with coming in my sheets. I hate that you made me love you, that I was so weak that I learned who you are and that I know all the good parts, that I loved you, and it's your fucking fault, Dean! You've fucked me up and I'm never going to heal, I'm always going to be conflicted every time I come onto a guy because I don't even know if it's me, if I want that man, or if it's you, fucking you in my head again."

 _"I'm sorry."_

"You don't even fucking know what to be sorry for!" Castiel screams into the phone. "I have to be the one to tell you why, and I'm terrified you're going to be out there, looking for me again. I begged you, Dean, I begged you to let me go. I hate you, I hate you, and I hope you go to hell!"

Castiel hangs up without waiting for a reply. Then he kneels on the kitchen floor and weeps.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N** _:_ Here we go! Sorry about the delay, but this is a 20k chapter, so you weren't waiting for nothing. ;) I haven't completely planned out the next chapter, so if you've got things you'd like to see, now's the time to give me suggestions. Also, I would just like to state for the record that I have no missing tags, first try! I am awesome.

[eta] WAIT! I BROKE 200K! WOOT!

 **Warnings (spoilers!)** _:_ Discussion of suicide, rape, and dubious consent. Violence (less or on par with the show).

Feedback is loved!

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Castiel stumbles into work still hungover.

He'd broken down with Stephen on Friday night, and it's Monday, but he spent most of the weekend drunk. Alcohol has never really been Castiel's coping method and he's always been more of a social drinker, but after that phone call to Dean, Castiel wanted to shut down his brain and keep it that way. By force, if necessary. And it was necessary. He even called a cab so he could go to the store and buy more alcohol. Heavier ones than beer, for the most bang for his buck. He spent the weekend as an alcoholic, and he's betting it shows.

He doesn't want to think. Not about Dean, not about Stephen, and most definitely not about himself.

He sits at his desk and buries himself in paperwork. He catches up on six months of various kinds of red tape, after he goes through all the cases being sent to the BAU and marking them in terms of importance and level of involvement. His head is aching, his gut is roiling, and he's relieved, because it keeps him from having enough mental energy to let his mind wander.

"Castiel?" Morgan's at the doorway.

Castiel rubs his eyes. "Hey. What's up?"

"You look like hell, man."

"Then I look how I feel."

Morgan steps into the room. All Castiel can see is that he's got his arms folded. "You want to talk about it?"

Castiel finally looks up. "Not really."

Morgan eyes him for a second. "Well, end of day. We're off. If you're gonna drink, you want company?"

Should he? He never drank a drop when he lived with Dean. When he was Dean's prisoner, rather. The reason at the time was that he needed to keep his wits about him, first to have any opportunity for escape, and second to keep himself safe from Dean. To not let any weaknesses show. Of course eventually that didn't matter, and then Castiel feared drinking because he feared he wouldn't stop. And now he doesn't want to let anything slip. But … "All right."

"I'll drive," Morgan says.

* * *

Castiel's not normally a whisky fan, but it does get you drunk very quickly. Morgan's sipping soda.

The bar isn't like the one he met Stephen at, of course, but somehow the difference jars him. It's more blue collar, and the bar he's sitting at is made of wood that has seen decades of glasses, scratches that are deep in the wood and softened over time. But he thinks most of all, this is the first bar he's been to since that one, which was the first bar he went to since his imprisonment. That's a good two years, since Castiel didn't go out for drinks often before, much less now.

To his credit, Morgan waits until Castiel is fairly drunk before asking his first question. "So what happened over the weekend?"

"I went on a date," pops out before Castiel can prevent it.

Morgan raises his eyebrows. "Something happen?"

"I freaked out on him," Castiel admits, and almost says, _And then I called Dean_ , but fortunately he strangles the impulse. He looks up at Morgan finally, and adds, "It wasn't his fault," just in case Morgan is thinking of overreacting.

"Castiel, I'm sorry," Morgan says quietly. "I'm guessing you don't have your therapy appointment until later in the week?"

And because he's drunk, Castiel asks, "Morgan, did being abused make it harder for you to form relationships?"

Morgan rears back a little, face blanking. Then he takes a deep breath and says, very slowly. "Yes, it did. But I overcame it, and so can you."

Tears sting Castiel's eyes. He pushes his drink away and rests his hands on his arms, and mumbles into his sleeve, "But I still love him."

"Okay," Morgan says, and not in answer. "Okay, I think you're done."

Castiel dimly hears Morgan pay for their tab, and then he's being dragged out of the bar. Despite being summer, for once the night is cool and it sobers Castiel up a little. He follows Morgan obediently, but in his head he's going over that phone call to Dean. What he screamed at Dean. Frankly, he kind of wonders if Dean's brains are splattered all over a wall in the bunker. Is he responsible, if Dean's dead?

He's slumped in the passenger's seat of Morgan's car, staring out at the blurring lights of the city. He asks, "When was the last sighting of Dean?"

"Castiel, you asked not to be informed of Winchester's case," Morgan replies, probably softer than he deserves.

"Right." Castiel closes his eyes. "Right."

Morgan is perfunctory and not all-together gentle when he gets Castiel out of the car and up into his apartment. Castiel does his best to help, but one weekend isn't enough to teach him to hold his liquor. He does manage to restrain the urge to vomit, though, so he can give himself a pat on the back for that. Once Morgan gets through the door, Castiel stumbles over to the bathroom without Morgan's help, and shuts the door. He urinates, zips up, and collapses onto bed.

"Listen," Morgan says, standing over him. "I'm going to call Hotch and let him know you'll be in late tomorrow, as long as you do me a favor."

Castiel half opens one eye.

"You call your therapist's office and get in earlier."

"Hmmph."

"I'm going to take that as agreement," Morgan says. "Sleep on your side."

No point escaping Dean just to choke on his own vomit.

Morgan leaves, but Castiel doesn't sleep. His mind whirls restlessly. After an hour, he gets up and strips off all his clothing, until he's naked. The cool air on his skin is a relief. He no longer feels hot and claustrophobic. Then he goes to the kitchen, finds that pot, and picks up the burner cell. He dials.

 _"Yeah?"_

Relief chokes Castiel for a moment. Then he says, "I was happy, you know that? I was happy before you took me." Castiel's voice breaks, and then he hangs up.

* * *

As promised, Castiel sees Dr. Katz early. It's the day after he came into work late and hungover, and he's doing better. No more alcohol, at least. He cares more about his job than temporarily numbing his feelings. He knows he'll get some leeway because he's still recovering and he's still on desk duty, so he works normal hours (for the most part) and isn't expected to be on call. But that will only last so long. He feels like if he can get on field duty again it will help right a lot of his emotional unbalance. Give him something to strive for, something to truly accomplish.

"So I take it something happened," she begins. "Or you wouldn't have come early. It's been months since you felt the need to do that."

Castiel nods warily. "I went on a date with Stephen. It didn't go well."

Dr. Katz leans back. "Okay. Would you be willing to be more specific?"

"I …" Castiel stops and looks away. He clenches his jaw, then tries to forcibly relax. "I tried to have sex with him."

"How was the date before that point?"

Castiel blinks, momentarily thrown. "Fine. It was fine."

"I don't know what happened, but I can tell you that difficulty in sexual relationships is normal after what you went through," Dr. Katz says. "In fact, I'd have been surprised if something didn't happen."

His throat tight, Castiel looks down.

"If you feel comfortable with it, I'd like to hear what happened from the beginning."

Castiel takes a deep breath. "We had dinner. We talked. He suggested dessert at a frozen yogurt place, but I asked to go home with him. I –" he stops. He feels weirdly ashamed. "I came onto him. We s-started undressing. He touched me in a way that reminded me of Dean, and I had a flashback. I tried to keep going, but he stopped me, by grabbing my hand. And I flashed back to when I stopped Dean from touching me, and I know it's not the same thing – Stephen was worried about me, not trying to prevent me from, from hurting him – but I just couldn't. I couldn't handle it and I ran from him like a frightened child."

"Castiel, I'm sorry you went through that."

Rather than answer, Castiel buries his head in his hands, shaking. He can't even tell her what happened afterwards, how he called Dean and said all those horrible things. All those true things.

Very gently, very softly, Dr. Katz says, "You were raped. You're still healing."

"Every time I masturbate, I think of him," Castiel confesses. He hadn't intended on telling her this, but it spills out – "After I got home, I fucked myself with a dildo, and it was Dean that I – it was thinking of Dean that got me off." He blinks into his hands, wiping his eyes. "Sometimes I crave him touching me. I miss having sex with him. The way he would hold me down and take it from me, and I'd beg for more, and he'd say … he'd say, 'You're mine.'" Castiel pauses. "I'm still his."

"He doesn't own you, Castiel," Dr. Katz says. "I know that having him free is a pressure on you, but he doesn't own you. He doesn't possess you."

"But I liked it," Castiel says, finally raising his eyes. "I liked him being possessive. You have to understand, Dean wanted me beyond anything – beyond reason, beyond morality."

Dr. Katz eyes him closely for a few moments, clearly trying to get her thoughts together. "Being wanted is a powerful thing," she says at last. "When it is welcomed. But that kind of obsession isn't healthy, for him or you."

But Castiel is talking to Dean. He has Dean's phone number. He has Dean's address. And he's only used it to maintain contact, instead of cutting it off. Is wanting Dean to understand, wanting healing from Dean, part of why he's still so fucked up? Is wanting to scream his pain at Dean making him worse, instead of helping him get through it? It felt so good to make Dean say those words, 'I raped you,' and now he doesn't think he can stop.

He doesn't think he can stop.

"There's something you're not telling me," Dr. Katz says quietly, without force or anger.

And he can't tell her what that is. "I'm sorry," he whispers, rather than deny it.

"You don't need to apologize to me, Castiel. If you can't tell me, then you can't. But I'm always here to help you, when you're ready."

Castiel will never be ready.

* * *

"I don't even know why I call you, Dean," Castiel says, choking on tears. "I don't know, and I can't tell anyone. But there's so much I can't tell them, because to them you're still a serial killer, and I know the truth of what you are, Dean, and I can't even ask for fucking help because of it. I hate you, but I can't hate you."

It's sad, but Dean is the only person he can tell the whole truth to.

Castiel pours out his anguish over the phone, to Dean.

Again, and again.

All of the major wounds, and the small ones. The major ones are hard to forget – his inability to tell anyone the truth of what happened, the sexual violation, the fact he still has feelings for Dean, however confused they may be. The small ones come to him at odd times, when he flinches from a touch he never would have before, or when he can't remember what his favorite brand of cheese is. When he almost forgets, and then he feels he scar on his neck, the deeper ones on his hip. The times when he forgets how to use a credit card and the new chip system, a change which occurred during his imprisonment. The little reminders of how much he lost to those eighteen months, living in the same few thousand square feet.

Even though he knows logically that the veil has been ripped away, he feels like there's a thick layer of fabric between him and the world. Where he lives differently than they do. Not simply because of the supernatural, or perhaps not even primarily. It's everything else. He's no longer the person he was, but everyone he knows is living the same life they were before. For all the tiny changes – Morgan moved, Hotch sees his son more often, JJ's son is getting so much bigger – they are the same people.

Castiel isn't. And it hurts.

When Castiel freezes in the supermarket, he whispers to Dean, "I freak out in the bread aisle. When I think about what I want to do next in my life, I'm terrified I won't get to choose." And ends the call.

When he finally texts Stephen to let him know he's okay, he screams at Dean, "Did you even care what I felt, or did you just want to fuck me?"

When he quietly freaks out over a kidnapping case – which he is not even present for, since he's still working at the office – he calls Dean to say, "Am I always going to fear you?"

When Stephen asks if Castiel would like to meet over some coffee, he tells Dean, "He's such a nice guy … but what if he's not human? But I can't ask him to do a silver check, or walk under a devil's trap, or – FUCK. Fuck you, Dean!"

When they have a case with a deeply psychotic unsub who thinks he's killing demons and Castiel starts doing all the checking to find out if it's true (signs in the area, if the unsub's demons follow real demon's rules, such as being black smoke), he calls Dean in the middle of the night and says, "Do you know how they look at me, Dean? They're afraid for me, and they're also suspicious. Because of you. Because I can't tell them the truth, or I lose my job. That's on _you_ , Dean."

The next time he calls, Dean speaks for the first time beyond 'Yeah' or 'Hello'. _"Can I – can I say something? Just real quick."_ His voice is breathy and anxious.

Castiel stares at the wall, slumped over his kitchen table. He doesn't know if he wants to hear Dean's justifications. But he finally says, "Okay."

 _"If you – whatever you want to say, whenever you want to say it, you can call me. I'll answer. I'll listen. It's the least I can do for you. So … I'm here. For whatever you want."_

Castiel swallows thickly and hangs up, the words he'd intended to say lost.

* * *

Should he call Dean? Should he _keep_ calling Dean?

Will it end his recovery? He's made leaps, he knows, in terms of taking back his life and sense of normalcy. Yes, the shadow of Dean and his imprisonment follows him, but most of the time it's not enough to prevent him from living his life. By speaking to Dean, is he opening himself up to more emotional manipulation on Dean's part? Dean wants to make amends, but that doesn't mean that Dean is capable of properly making amends. Castiel isn't even sure what making amends means, in this case.

The question is, what does Castiel want from Dean?

For him to listen? Is that all?

Castiel touches the calluses on his ankle. He's sitting on his couch dressed in sweatpants, not too dissimilar from the first ones Dean gave him, and staring at a blank TV screen. His fingers wander over the rough skin repeatedly, remembering how they slowly developed from the weight of the cuff on his ankle. When he would walk, the cuff would shift slightly, just enough to toughen his skin over time. Dean did this. Dean touched these calluses, and did so lovingly.

Sometimes Castiel thinks that Dean loved him too much, and other times he thinks that Dean didn't love him enough. He loved him too much to let him go, and not enough to set him free.

Castiel rises to his feet, cloth slipping against the bare skin of his ankle. He checks the sigils on the walls meant to keep Anna out and unaware of his location – though if she showed up at Quantico, there's not much he can do about that, but given Dean's promise he thinks that rather unlikely – and the hex bags that successfully kept Dean from finding him. They're all still intact, though he should probably replace the hex bags in a few months to make sure the contents are all as they should be. He checks his weapon. He still doesn't have his FBI issued weapon, but he's waiting for Hotchner to bring that up. It's not that he isn't eager, but he doesn't want to look like he's not taking his time in recovering.

He finds himself in the kitchen. He takes the pot off of the fridge, finding the burner cell nestled in a washcloth, just where he left it. He checks the battery, then plugs it into the wall because it's almost dead.

Aditi wakes from her nap and starts wandering around the apartment, sniffing things to make sure they are as they should be, as if taking Castiel's cue. Castiel watches her, relaxing in his amusement.

The cell beeps when it's done charging. Castiel stands up and walks to the charger, near the door. He stares at the cell for a long moment, before settling on his couch again and dialing. Of course. The same number.

 _"Yeah?"_

Castiel can't speak. His throat is suddenly tight and his vision blurry. He doesn't know what to say. Perhaps because for once he's reasonably calm.

 _"Cas?"_

Castiel exhales shakily.

 _"Are you okay?"_ Dean says, beginning to sound frantic. _"Did something happen? Do you need help?"_

"I'm fine," Castiel snaps.

 _"Oh. Okay. Uh, good."_ Short silence.

"You said you were sorry," Castiel says at last.

 _"I am. I – I know that's probably hard to believe. Spent eighteen months not being sorry enough."_ Dean clears his throat. _"But yeah, I'm sorry. For what it's worth."_

"You say those words, Dean, but I don't know if you really see. See what you did to me, how you fucked me up. If you're sorry because you should be, or if it's because I'm angry at you, because I finally left you."

Long silence. _"Well, I'm not gonna lie. All the shit I've been through – and I'm not justifying it – but I don't see morals the same way as other people do, I guess? It's always been, 'Did someone suffer?' Then it's wrong. The law doesn't matter. Even what people say is wrong doesn't matter. I mean, I've killed people. Humans, I mean, who had it coming, but didn't or couldn't get caught by cops."_ Dean exhales. _"So yeah. I made you suffer. I put you in pain, and I knew it. I wanted to deny it, but I knew it and tried to tell myself I just had to take care of you better. What I did was wrong."_

Castiel breathes.

 _"I do know that, Cas. It was completely and utterly wrong, and there's no justifying it, no making it right. No good intentions to hide behind. If you choose to put a bullet in my head, y'know, by my code that's all right. I'd deserve it."_

"Dean …"

 _"But do I know exactly what I did to you? Exactly how much I hurt you? I dunno if I really do, and I'm – I'm ashamed of that. But I guess at the same time I'm afraid to really know. To know that about myself, as selfish as that is. But I – I want to do better."_ Dean swallows audibly. _"I'm sorry, Cas."_

"You don't have morals like other people do?" Castiel asks. "From what you told me about the apocalypse, there's a lot you saw right. You fought for the world. But you – you didn't fight for me. Not the way you should have."

 _"The thing is … Sammy murdered some people. I didn't tell you that part. But he killed them to drink their blood, when Ruby was fucking with his head, or trying to exorcise the demons in them. He threw himself into the pit for it, and he suffered a lot, and he was my brother, you know? So I forgave him. I'd protect him from cops, or the family of the victims. Because he was my brother and I loved him, I loved him so much, Cas. And that's wrong, because what he did was wrong, and so would be protecting him from the consequences. So … I don't know. I don't know what to tell you. It's all so fucked up, and I don't have a good answer. I just went by what seemed right, through the whole apocalypse and the aftermath, and when I fucked up, or Sam fucked up, we just tried to fix it. But people died. Innocent people died."_

"It was war," Castiel says softly.

 _"But you weren't."_ Dean laughs a little. _"That makes me evil, really. By my own moral code."_

Castiel says quietly, "Goodbye, Dean," and hangs up.

* * *

He doesn't call Dean for a month.

Instead, he works at the FBI. And that work smoothes out. Castiel comes into work smiling, more often than not. It feels like something within him has been released, at least a little. A tension that he carried since his escape has faded. He's not sure why, if it's that he really believes Dean isn't around the corner, waiting to catch him unawares, or if having Dean confess so clearly to his guilt was something he needed to hear. He knows, of course, that there are even court programs in place meant to do just that with incarcerated criminals and their victims – meetings set up so the criminal can understand the true impact of the crime, and the victim or the victim's family can have their say. He never thought he'd be one of those people.

One evening, Aditi in his lap, he calls Dean. "You owe me."

 _"I owe you everything, Cas."_

Castiel takes a deep breath. "Then I want something from you. I want you to understand. And not look away."

And Dean says, evenly with determination, _"Okay. However you want this to go."_

Is it strange, to want understanding from the one man that his friends would tell him never can?

* * *

Castiel has been working for three months. It's been seven since he escaped from that motel room in Oklahoma. Most of the normal routines of life have reestablished themselves. The monotonous tasks like getting groceries and paying his bills are comforting. Even work, with all its variables, has become comfortable again. Not without its own stress – he feels that acutely when the team is out on a case, potentially risking their lives – but he remembers that. It's not new. In some ways, he's reminded of the time he got shot as a police officer, and ended up on leave, then desk duty while he healed. (Gut wounds tend to be problematic. So are ones of the heart, apparently.)

So Castiel stays home, and heals.

 _"Hello?"_ Dean's voice.

"Dean."

 _"Hi, Cas. Um, how you doing?"_ Dean has yet to tell Castiel he's busy. Castiel half wonders if he's hunting, or if he just drops whatever he's doing to talk to Castiel.

"Whenever I confronted you about – the kidnapping. Whenever I did that, you shut down."

There's a short pause. _"Yeah, I did. It um, it broke through my denial. I just kept telling myself if I took care of you better, that you'd be fine. That being a prisoner wouldn't hurt you."_

"That's how you justified it to yourself?"

 _"Yeah."_ Dean says it shakily.

"That's fucked up, Dean."

 _"I know. I mean, yes."_

"So when you came home to find me all cut up, bleeding all over the place, that's what you told yourself? You just had to take care of me better?" His eyes sting. "You drove me to self-harm, Dean. Years of watching the worst of humanity and I never felt pain that deeply."

 _"I guess it's more than that. It was … like – I convinced myself that I could be everything for you. Which is really screwed up and really arrogant. Like I could replace everything you needed in your life. I mean, I think about it now, Cas, and I don't know how I thought that, but I did. Because I wanted to keep you so badly, but I didn't want to feel like shit while I did it. I mean, while I did that to you."_ He swallows audibly. _"Sometimes I think about hunting. How I'm like something I'd hunt. You know? Not all monsters are pure evil, but when it was a vampire doing that shit I'd take off their head in a heartbeat."_

Castiel stares down at his lap for a while, Aditi sleeping there peacefully. "You tried to take away my free will. Intentional or not."

 _"It wasn't intentional, I swear that to you. If that helps any. I am sorry, Cas. I know it's too little, too late, but I am."_

"It – " Castiel stops. "It helps. To hear those words."

 _"Okay. I'm glad,"_ Dean says softly.

"But your obsession with me, Dean, I fear that even if you say that, say you won't kidnap me, won't try to hurt me, I'm not sure if that's true. If you'll just go back to what you were, if given the chance." That if he did know where Castiel was, that if taking Castiel was easy, he'd do it again and deny how much imprisonment was hurting him.

 _"I don't know how to give you more than my word,"_ Dean says finally. _"I could put myself in a situation where I couldn't, but even then you know I could get Anna to get me out of it."_

Castiel closes his eyes.

 _"I could kill myself,"_ Dean says hesitantly.

"I don't want you dead," Castiel answers, almost immediately. It's true. Despite telling Dean he wanted him in hell, he doesn't want Dean dead. He's not even sure if that was the truth, telling Dean he wanted Dean in hell. He doesn't know all the details of Dean's forty years there, but the idea of Dean turning into a demon is revolting. What goodness there is in Dean, the part of him that drove him to try to save the world, Castiel doesn't want that gone. "I don't want you to become a demon. You don't deserve that," he adds.

 _"I appreciate that, Cas,"_ Dean says, barely audible. _"I don't actually know where I'd go, though."_

Castiel laughs a little. "I don't know either."

 _"Is that why you want me to really understand what I did to you?"_ Dean asks. _"So I never do it again? Or do you just, I don't know, want me to see. Which is gonna hurt. I'm asking because – not because I don't deserve to suffer, if that's what you want. 'Cause I mean I do, even if that's not what you want, I deserve it. But I want to do right by you, Cas, for once."_

"I don't know."

Dean is silent.

"I want to feel safe," Castiel says. "But being safe isn't talking to you. So I don't know."

 _"I'll never hurt you again, Cas, I swear. I love you. I know my love is a twisted, fucked up thing that nobody could ever want, but I do love you. And the part of that that's good, that's the part I'll keep."_

Castiel doesn't know what to say to that, his throat tight. He wipes his eyes. "Good night, Dean." And hangs up without waiting for a reply.

* * *

Castiel meets Stephen over coffee.

He stands outside the coffee shop for a good fifteen minutes, trying to work up the courage to go in. He's late. The coffee shop's name is glowing now, and the tables inside are filling with the after-work and school crowd. All the people are just going about their normal lives, getting cups of expensive coffee and either staying to finish it or rushing home, or to a date, or something else that Castiel can't think of right now. Castiel looks like a business man in his suit and tie from work, and it's hot out here, and he still can't make himself go in.

He wipes his mouth, takes a deep breath, and opens the door. He sees Stephen almost immediately, sitting in a corner with a table, and a chair opposite him with a briefcase on it. He's reading a newspaper, and frowning at it.

Too late to back out now.

Castiel takes the twenty steps to get close enough to talk, and says, "Hi."

Stephen looks up and smiles. Instinctively, unplanned, that Castiel can tell. "Hey, Castiel. Oh, take a seat - I'll grab that briefcase, I was saving the chair." He grabs the briefcase and plops it on the floor.

Castiel shifts on his feet. "Do you mind if I have the chair facing the door?"

Stephen blinks, but says, "Sure." He gets up and switches sides.

Castiel finds his seat is warm, and tries to repress his blush. He meets Stephen's eyes. "I wanted to say I'm sorry –"

"You don't need to," Stephen interrupts, sincere. "Really."

"I need to. That was a test for myself as much as a real desire for you, and you didn't deserve that."

After a moment, Stephen nods cautiously. "Apology accepted. How have you been?"

"Better." Castiel tries to figure out what to say next. He's not sure how to explain the past two months. "Working, mostly. Still on desk duty, so nothing exciting. Just lots of papercuts."

Stephen smiles. "There's a reason my company went green and digital. Well, okay, it had more to do with paying for paper than papercuts, but the point stands." He taps the table. "Thanks for coming, by the way. I wasn't sure you would."

Castiel looks away. "I almost didn't."

"You know, there's nothing to be embarrassed about, right? I mean … it sounds like you went through hell."

Castiel looks up, but Stephen only looks back at him calmly. "It screwed me up, I think that much is obvious. And I – I wanted to know if you still meant what you said that night. About that not being a deal breaker. If not, that's totally fine, it's been two months and I never even texted you until weeks –"

"Yes. It's still true."

Castiel finally feels himself smile. Just a bit.

"I do have a caveat, though," Stephen admits. "Or a rule. Whatever you want to call it. I don't expect you to tell me everything, or feel comfortable doing that, but you need to talk to me. And not leave out the important things, the things that would be important to us."

Not nearly as bad as Castiel had feared. "Fair enough. I agree."

They don't talk about Dean after that. Castiel catches up on Stephen's life – his younger sister just had a baby, and his mother has turned into a crying mess asking when Stephen will give her another grandchild, and pointing out he's plenty rich enough to do a private adoption, and it's driving Stephen slightly insane. It makes Castiel laugh – he doesn't have that kind of relationship with his own parents, of course. He ends up finally explaining that, and how his parents cut him off entirely, but he still gets letters from his sister (though she does not read his). Stephen is shocked and saddened by that, since his family is so close, but Castiel tells him that he's extremely close to his older brother Balthazar.

Stephen laughs until he cries when Castiel explains the pink gifts every year, and the last story Balthazar told him (still catching up on the eighteen months he was gone) about a student who had an allergic reaction to a new medication and streaked half the school, rather gleefully for all the entire-body rash. There was aloe involved.

"Well, I think my stomach wants something more than coffee and scones," Stephen finally says. "Think you'd be up for dinner?"

Castiel smiles. "Sure."

"There's a place I know down the road, we can walk," Stephen suggests.

Castiel stands up and grabs his second empty coffee cup so he can throw it in the trash. "Then let's walk."

It's still eighty degrees out, but there's no sun and a cool breeze.

"So you enjoy working at the FBI still?" Stephen asks halfway there. "Out of curiosity, do you intend on making that your entire career?"

For some reason, that throws Castiel and he has difficulty responding. People haven't asked him about the far future, just the immediate, since his return. It takes him a full minute to get his answer together. "When I joined the FBI after the police force, I did basically intend to stay my entire career. I know a fair number who want to get their twenty years and get out, go into business or retire, but I don't think I could handle that," Castiel admits. "I don't like being idle. And I need purpose in what I do."

Stephen nods slowly. "I can understand that. I'm not built for guns and bad guys, and I like what I do – I like the mental challenge. Someday I'm sure I'll get tired of it, but not yet." He grins. "It's always a changing business, too, keeps me on my toes."

Castiel relaxes. "I can see that. I guess we're both workaholics?"

Stephen laughs. "Oh, yeah. I think so. Match made in heaven."

It's not Stephen's fault, but Castiel flinches.

"Castiel? What did I say?"

Castiel looks away. "It's – it's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Stephen says, slowing under a street light. "That triggered something."

"Dean used to say that," Castiel says, "more or less." In all the talk of soulmates, and soulmates sharing a heaven – yes, close enough. It's jarring to think about that now, to realize that Castiel isn't with his soulmate. That he's deliberately searching out another relationship knowing the man he's 'meant for' is elsewhere. But he can't imagine that everyone meets their soulmate, and he knows many married people who remarried after a spousal death, and were very happy. Maybe that's the way to think about it. That Dean is dead. Or just dead to him.

"Dean?" Stephen stops entirely. "The serial killer. That's who you mean."

Castiel nods, still looking at the ground. "It's not important. You didn't know." He finally raises his gaze.

After a visible hesitation, Stephen takes a step closer to Castiel and reaches out to touch his face, to lay his palm across his cheek, stroking down to his neck. Stephen's shoulders are a tense line, but there's nothing of that in the way he touches Castiel. "Thank you for telling me."

Castiel tries to loosen his body and smile.

"Just another block or two," Stephen says, letting the subject go. "May I?" He holds out his hand to Castiel.

Castiel takes his hand.

* * *

That night, knowing he should be able to sleep but unable to, Castiel calls Dean.

 _"Yeah?"_

"Hello, Dean."

 _"Hi, Cas."_

Castiel stares at his bedroom wall for a minute or two. "I know you know I dated, before you. Had some serious relationships, though they ultimately didn't go anywhere."

 _"Yeah, I know that,"_ Dean says hesitantly.

"I'm not –" Castiel bites his lip, frustrated. "I know we're soulmates. But I feel like you never gave me a choice in the matter. Or maybe heaven never did, but … I feel like that should have been my choice, Dean. To decide that you were or weren't. Not a declarative statement from an angel. I don't like the idea that I'm stuck with you, that someone else made that decision for me. That you made that decision for me."

Dean doesn't answer for a long moment. _"I wanted to let you know … I spoke to Anna. About how heaven works. And yeah, you get to choose if you spend eternity with your soulmate. I guess the default is you're alone, and that's why soulmates choose, but things have changed up there, so even people who aren't soulmates cross individual heavens a lot more."_ Dean pauses. _"Sorry, that's off topic. The point is … you don't have to share heaven with me."_

Castiel's vision blurs. "I get to choose?"

 _"Yeah, Cas, you do."_ Dean sounds pained, but there's a comforting note to his words. Like he knows it makes Castiel happy.

"I've gotten so little choice, Dean," Castiel whispers, curling up on his bed. But hope flutters in his chest.

 _"I'm sorry."_

"I'm trying to date someone," Castiel confesses. "And I hate, Dean, I hate the fact that I feel guilty for it."

 _"You're – you're dating?"_ Dean sounds surprised. Castiel searches his tone for anything else, but that's all there is.

Castiel sits up. "And that's my choice to make, Dean," he says sharply.

 _"I'm sorry. Yeah, it is your choice."_ Dean pauses. _"In fact, I'm just not gonna say anything more than that. You don't need my shit."_

Some tenseness leaves Castiel. "Because of what you did to me, Dean, I'm afraid I'm never going to be able to get close to someone again. Do you know you did that? That you fucked me up that way? That I'll – I'll always fear intimacy? I freaked out on him, Dean, I came onto him and then I couldn't, because I flashed back to you – to what you did. To feeling so lost, and like I had no control over my own body or mind –" Castiel's voice breaks. "What if I can never love someone again, Dean?"

 _"Oh, Cas,"_ Dean says quietly. _"You're one of the strongest people I've ever met."_ He sounds weirdly reserved while he says it, and Castiel realizes he's trying not to react to something. Maybe the gender of the person Castiel's dating, maybe the rest. _"I know this is rich coming from me, but you'd be surprised what you can overcome, eventually. All the trauma."_

Well, if anyone would know that, it would be Dean. The man who went to hell for forty years.

 _"But um, thanks, Cas. For telling me. I do want to understand. I owe that to you. I didn't think about that when I was holding you prisoner, and I guess I never thought about it after either. But I'm sorry."_

It's the right words. But Castiel isn't sure he entirely gets it. Maybe superficially. It's like when you're talking to someone and they're doing their best to understand you, but ultimately they're really just nodding along, getting the basic concept but not the full breadth of what you're trying to say.

 _"I guess he's the guy you mentioned a few weeks ago? You said you wanted to check someone out, but didn't say you were, uh, dating him. And that's weird to me, but I don't get to say anything. I know that."_ Dean clears his throat. _"I'm pretty sure the answer is no, but do you want me to check him out? I can do it without being noticeable."_

"Absolutely fucking not, Dean!" Castiel snaps. "Stay out of my life. I don't want you anywhere near me. Or him."

 _"Right, right. I'm sorry."_

Castiel takes a moment to control his breathing. "Goodbye, Dean."

 _"Night, Cas."_

* * *

"You've been very reserved lately," Dr. Katz says. "But you seem stable. Have you been talking to your team members more, or friends?"

Castiel looks in her in the eye. "In a manner of speaking."

* * *

Dr. Katz is the one who encourages Castiel to go to Hotchner and ask to be put back on field duty. Six months since he returned to work. Almost eleven since he escaped.

That's why Castiel finds himself in Hotchner's office, after hours. Before even discussing it fully, Hotchner had Dr. Katz give her reasoning on why Castiel was ready, and then had him examined by an FBI psychologist – someone who specializes in cases of trauma and going back to work – and then they put him through a test scenario at the Academy, similar to the ones students go through during their training. Castiel passed with flying colors, reacting appropriately in every scenario given. Finally, they end up here.

"Have a seat," Hotchner says, looking tired after a long day. Not the in-the-field kind of long day, but tiring enough regardless.

Castiel sits, and decides to get straight to the point. "What are your concerns?"

"That you will overreact or under-react," Hotcher says matter-of-factly. "Law enforcement is a field where your reaction often determines the course of events. I don't doubt your mental will; I doubt your ability to cope in your first stressful situation after all of this, when you don't have time to think it through or decide how to react."

Castiel nods slowly. "I understand. If I react poorly, not only could I endanger witness, victims, and suspects, but also my own team members. I wouldn't ask for this if I didn't think I could back up my team, Hotch. I would never put them in danger."

"Not knowingly," Hotchner agrees. He sighs. "Everyone says you're ready. I'm not going to fight it just based on my instinct, that's not fair to you. But I do have conditions."

Heart beating fast with excitement, Castiel says, "Yes?"

"You're always partnered, no matter how harmless a situation or an interview seems. And I want you talking to one of us every day about how you're doing. Doesn't have to be me, but someone on the team."

"Agreed. Of course."

Hotchner finally smiles, a small and gentle one, the only kind of genuine smile Hotchner gives. "Then welcome back."

* * *

"FBI! Stop!"

Castiel is running through a park after a suspect, his heart racing half from effort and half from adrenaline. It's darker than the surrounding city, but the aura of light from streetlamps helps, as does the three quarters full moon. He can hear Morgan running next to him, his gun also drawn, shouting out commands to the dark figure stumbling in front of them. Morgan's outpacing him, so Castiel draws himself to the side, so Morgan's not in his line of fire. Fortunately, since this is a park and not a forest, the trees are widely spaced and not likely to be a problem. Castiel's mind automatically moves through the potential lines of fire, and what he needs to do.

For all that he hasn't done this in two years, his mind and body remember.

"Stop!" Morgan yells again, as the suspect stumbles more severely this time, and Morgan closes in. "Hands on your head!"

"FBI, hands on your head!" Castiel shouts. Sometimes being surrounded, having multiple people scream commands at the suspect, is enough to make a suspect give up. Castiel, at a forty-five degree angle, sees the suspect reach behind himself, to his waist, and as his hand begins to move forward –

Castiel fires.

Twice, at the suspect's chest, his largest body mass. The suspect jerks, not from the gunshots themselves, but from the shock of being hit, and then he collapses.

"Gun!" Castiel tells Morgan, who is still holding his own gun on the unsub. Castiel gets within a few feet of the suspect, gun still trained on the him, while Morgan slides the gun the suspect was reaching for in Castiel's general direction. Morgan cuffs his hands together and begins to provide medical attention by putting pressure on the two gunshots, which are almost perfectly in the center of his chest. Through the darkness, Castiel can see the dark slide of blood. The suspect whimpers in pain, so he's not dead. Not yet.

"Don't move," Morgan tells the suspect.

Castiel reaches for his radio, though he can hear the police coming their way. They had a police patrol car accompanying them to a potential unsub location. "We need a bus," he says. "Felder Park. Suspect down with two gunshot wounds."

Morgan looks up at Castiel. After a moment of hesitation, Castiel holsters his gun and makes sure the suspect's gun is uncocked and lying far enough away before he kneels in the blood-soaked grass and puts his hand on the other gun-shot wound, applying forceful pressure.

"You need to breathe," Castiel tells the suspect, a man of about twenty-five, his bright blue eyes wide with agony. He's suspected of killing at least ten women, but right now Castiel's job is to keep him alive for trial. He focuses on that, breathing deeply himself. He catches Morgan's eye, who is watching Castiel just as closely as the unsub. He nods once at Morgan, a silent show of 'I'm fine,' and then returns his attention to the unsub. "Slowly. Breathe with me. We have an ambulance coming."

Then everyone else arrives.

Police arrive first. Two officers come with bandages meant to staunch the bleeding, while they check the unsub's breathing. They cordon off the area, and right after that the ambulance arrives. They keep him cuffed until the EMT's can stabilize him in the gurney, then two uniformed officers accompany him to the ambulance, and to the hospital. Red and blue lights flash through the darkness.

Castiel wipes his hands clean of blood on a towel one of the police officers gave him. He begins to shake, and he'd really like to sit down, but instead he leans against a patrol car.

"Good call," Morgan tells Castiel, wiping his own hands as he watches police more thoroughly control the scene. News station trucks have started to show up. "I didn't see him reach for his gun."

Castiel nods slightly. "I'll hand over my gun to forensics when they get here."

"Hey. You did good. Got that?" Morgan asks, making eye contact. "Shooting someone's never easy, but you followed protocol perfectly."

Castiel manages to smile at him. "I know."

What follows is the mess of procedure and paperwork that comes after any shooting. Since the FBI is federal and Castiel took the shot, technically the FBI is in charge of investigating the shooting to make sure it was justified. Castiel will be placed on desk duty until it's formally resolved. Castiel doesn't expect that to be a problem – he's shot people as an FBI agent before, and he knows the drill – but it is a mess until then. Hotchner and Reid come to the crime scene and Castiel surrenders his weapon. Castiel writes a report in an unused office at the local police station.

To his relief, no one treats him differently or delicately.

JJ and Reid come by to make sure he's okay, but that's within the realm of normal. Hotchner checks in quickly, but doesn't speak to him about it until they're back on the plane, on their way home.

"Check in with Dr. Katz," Hotchner tells him. "It looks like Miller will pull through, but I also still want you to do the eight sessions with the FBI psychologist."

Castiel nods his understanding. "I will."

Hotchner eyes him. "It's good to have you back."

Castiel smiles.

* * *

Being on limited duty while the shooting investigation is completed does give Castiel one benefit. He's seen Stephen a lot less since returning to the field, which he expected, but was probably somewhat jarring for Stephen, who is at least used to Castiel answering his texts in a fairly timely manner. Now when Castiel is out of the state on an investigation, he usually barely has time for it. He honestly doesn't know how JJ manages with a husband and child.

Stephen answers his door, grins big, and invites Castiel in. Castiel still walks around armed most of the time, but he's taken to using a sidetable with a nearly invisible drawer to hold his holstered gun. When Castiel puts his gun away, Stephen grabs two beers and collapses on the couch – he's dressed in sweats, and barefoot, so he's been home a while – and asks, "So you're still under investigation?"

"Not really. It's standard to investigate any time an agent discharges a weapon. The fact they haven't asked for another interview means it's probably over soon." Castiel sits down next to Stephen, close enough their thighs touch. He takes the beer Stephen offers."It's normal. I've been through this a dozen times since joining the FBI."

Stephen nods, frowning a little. "So it's not because of …?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm being treated normally."

Stephen looks relieved. It's sweet. "Can I hold you?" It's something that Stephen always asks first.

Castiel nods without hesitation. Stephen swings an arm around Castiel's shoulders, bringing him close to his body. Castiel leans in, too, tucking his shoulder under Stephen's and letting his head rest on Stephen's shoulder. Tension seeps away. It's a little awkward to sip his beer in this position, but he doesn't care. It's comforting. There's nothing threatening about Stephen. His muscular body is one built at the gym, not on the mat, and since Castiel's freak out on him, he's been so careful about how he touches Castiel. He asks permission and stays attuned to Castiel's reactions.

Stephen grabs the remote and turns the TV to some random show that Castiel doesn't know. Before his captivity, he'd found most television irritating, and commercials even more so, but now he finds a strange sort of enjoyment in them. During the breaks, Stephen meanders around his work day and office gossip.

"I have to get in early tomorrow," Stephen says reluctantly after the tv show ends, pulling away.

"Can I stay?" Castiel blurts, then flushes. "Not for sex. For company?"

Stephen blinks at Castiel several times. Then he nods. "Okay. I've got some clean pajamas if you'd like to borrow some. Uh, guest room or …?"

Feeling more secure at Stephen's response, Castiel clears his throat and admits, "Yours."

Stephen smiles, and it's heartbreakingly sweet. He kisses Castiel lightly. "I'll get you something to wear." He puts his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and disappears into the bedroom.

Castiel stares at the blank television screen for a few moments. He hadn't planned on asking Stephen for that. Not at all. He realizes now he's been wanting it in the back of his mind, this desire to be held. To not be alone.

Sometimes it seems as if he's spent the majority of his life alone. Isolated first by his loving family, then rejected by them, then traveling from city to city as a police officer, and then again as an FBI agent. As strange as it is, Dean was probably the longest he'd stayed in a particular situation. His career progressed so rapidly that he rarely spent more than a year in one place, or doing a particular kind of job. Relationships were always secondary to the work. Balthazar was and is important, but his brother always had his own life. Castiel never regretted that choice, but perhaps it's telling that simply sharing a bed with Dean had such a profound effect on his sense of well-being, tricking him into relaxing around someone he still mostly believed to be a serial killer.

Some part of him enjoyed being forced into that intimacy. Not the sexual aspects, of course, he feared that. Though in time he learned to embrace those as an extension of that initial intimacy that was so weirdly comforting.

"This all right?" Stephen asks, holding up blue sleep pants and a soft-looking t-shirt.

"Yes. Thank you."

"I'm going to brush my teeth. You know where the guest bath is," Stephen says, smiling, then walks away.

Castiel strips slowly in the bathroom, eyeing each piece of revealed skin as he does so. Once he's in his boxers, he puts on Stephen's pajamas. They fit.

Stephen is sitting on the bed when Castiel walks in. It's a king-size, and even with two full grown men, they won't have to touch. Stephen silently gets under the covers when he sees Castiel. Licking his lips, Castiel puts his phone on 'his' side of the bed, having already set the alarm to wake him early enough so he can go home before leaving for work. He pulls back the comforter and sheets, heart pounding, then climbs in. He lays his head on the pillow, and Stephen does the same, facing him.

"Do you want me to hold you?" Stephen whispers. He hasn't turned the light off yet, so Castiel can clearly see the worry on his face.

"Um. Yes."

It requires a bit of maneuvering and one huffed 'ow,' but Castiel ends up with his head on Stephen's chest, one arm thrown over Stephen and the other curled against his side. Stephen smoothes his free hand down Castiel's back, and Castiel shudders, though not in horror or pain.

"Lights off?" Stephen asks.

"I can't sleep with them on," Castiel admits.

Stephen stretches, and the light turns off. Stephen has blackout drapes, so the room is very dark.

After a moment, Stephen says into Castiel's hair, "I don't know if this is a weird thing to say, but every time you trust me – thank you, Castiel."

Castiel's breath hitches a moment. "Thank you for giving me this."

Stephen doesn't answer, but somehow Castiel knows that's not a bad thing. Stephen falls asleep within about ten minutes, his body relaxing in slumber, and Castiel follows twenty minutes later.

When they wake the next morning to Stephen's screeching alarm, they're still tangled together.

Watching Stephen scramble to get ready for work is entertaining. Unlike Castiel, whose suits are chosen more for how easily he can move in them – just in case – he chooses suits based on fit and color. In concept Castiel would think they'd look similar, him and Stephen, but they don't. They lead very different lives and careers.

Stephen kisses him. "I'll leave a key so you can lock up on your way out."

"See you tonight?" Castiel asks.

"I'll be later, but I'll be here," Stephen says, and ducks out.

Castiel heads out ten minutes later for his own apartment. His neighbor, an elderly gentlemen that absolutely loves dogs, took Aditi for the night, just like he did while Castiel was out in the field. It helps Castiel not to be so tied-down to being home, and it helps his neighbor have company. He says hello to her, and then ends up leaving her again. He won't take money, so Castiel pays him in ridiculous quantities of dog food.

Work is normal. The shooting investigation ends right before the end of the work day and it clears him completely. Miller, the unsub, survived, and is being arraigned for trial in Illinois.

Castiel still has Stephen's key, so he lets himself in. He relaxes on the sofa, a familiar place to be now. When he gets a text saying Half an hour, I swear, he calls up a local pizza place and gets delivery.

Pizza arrives five minutes before Stephen does.

"Pizza?" Stephen says hopefully. "Oh, you are a genius." He leans over and kisses Castiel deeply. Castiel closes his eyes and gives into it. He takes a step forward into Stephen's space, close enough that he can put his hand at the small of Stephen's back. Castiel's already taken off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his dress shirt, so it's easy for Stephen to return the favor, except he pushes up under Castiel's undershirt and his bare hand touches Castiel's bare skin.

Castiel moans a little.

Stephen does pull away, but it's not out of lack of desire. Caution, maybe. He smiles at Castiel and says, "I'm starving."

"Me, too," and Castiel isn't just talking about the food. Stephen can't possibly know that, though, and even Castiel isn't sure if he wants him to. If he wants that, if he can do that.

"Shall we eat?" Stephen asks.

Castiel draws away and nods, and as if acting in concert, his stomach growls.

Stephen laughs.

Their relationship is one of time spent together and gentle kisses, for the most part. They talk about their pasts, about their families. Stephen doesn't ask about the missing eighteen months, and Castiel doesn't volunteer information. He's not entirely sure why Stephen doesn't bring it up – it so clearly colors everything that Castiel does and feels.

When Castiel comes to bed in Stephen's clothes for the second night in a row, he asks, "Why don't you ask me about my kidnapping?"

Stephen pauses in fluffing his pillow. He sits up. "Well, I guess because the topic scares me a little."

Castiel settles on the bed, blinking. "It scares you?"

"That I'll say the wrong thing, or I won't be able to understand. Or freak out. That I'll do something to hurt you," Stephen says, and immediately enough that Castiel knows he's given the subject a fair amount of thought.

Castiel looks down at his hands, picks up the comforter and picks at it. "I'd rather you ask than wonder."

Stephen nods slowly. "Okay."

"Can I ask a personal question?"

"We're in a relationship, personal questions come with the territory," Stephen says with a wry smile.

True enough. "Do you ever worry that I won't be able – I won't be able to do this with you?" Castiel asks, waving at the bed, but meaning everything. Have a permanent relationship with Castiel at all.

"I'd be lying if I said it hadn't occurred to me," Stephen admits. "And if you can't, I'll accept that. Right now we're just getting to know each other and exploring our options." He shrugs. "We haven't even had the 'are we exclusive' talk."

Not that there's much to say, at least on Castiel's part. It's pretty obvious he's not going to be dating anyone else, when he can barely emotionally manage Stephen. And while he knows sex isn't the whole point of a relationship, he can't give Stephen that either. Not yet.

"Hey. Hey. I didn't mean I'm sleeping around. I'm not," Stephen tells him, reaching out to touch his jaw. "I'm with you, okay?"

"So we are having this conversation?" Castiel jokes.

"Part of the territory, I suppose," Stephen says, smiling, his shoulders losing their tense line. "Come here?"

Castiel comes closer, curious. Stephen gently takes Castiel's limbs and arranges him on the bed, under the covers, curled up on his side with Stephen pressed up against his back. The little spoon. They're about the same size, though, so their bodies don't quite match up, but it's the closest they've slept – most of their bodies touching. Stephen hesitates to press completely up to him, so Castiel grabs his arm, like he once did with Dean, and pulls it over himself. He chooses this.

* * *

Castiel sleeps leaves a week later for a series of business meetings in Spain.

Castiel uses the time to give Aditi attention and to think. It's been a year since his escape. He's changed from the person who came home only to be attacked in his kitchen, and from the person who trembled while walking out that motel door. So when he looks upon his past, it's with as much calm and objectivity as he's had in years.

He gets something very different from his relationship with Stephen than he did with Dean. That he still does with Dean, for that matter. In Stephen is comfort and harmlessness. Castiel's never felt threatened by him, but he also doesn't feel the same drive to know Stephen, or the same emotional or physical pull. He can and does feel sexually and emotionally attracted to Stephen, but it lacks both the fire and pain he had with Dean. The intensity and the depth. He can't decide if he's simply not psychologically capable of having a normal relationship, or if their relationship should be this way. Talking with Dr. Katz about it hasn't solidified anything.

Dean is a contradiction. Comfort and danger. Intimacy and violation.

Castiel hasn't forgiven him. And the idea of going back to him is nearly unfathomable – not with Castiel damaged, and probably irreparably to some degree, and not with Dean as he is. Dean isn't trustworthy, because Dean still struggles with knowing exactly what he did wrong. Exactly how badly he damaged Castiel through his actions. Under the anger, it hurts to know that Dean is his soulmate, and yet he can't be with his soulmate because his soulmate fucked up irrevocably. It's Dean's fault, all Dean's fault, and yet Castiel is the one to suffer. Once in captivity, again out of it, because things will never be as they were meant to be.

Whatever that means.

In the moments that Castiel forgot about the cuff on his ankle, he was happy in a way he'd never known before. But those moments were rare, because under the contentment lurked pain and that cuff, dragging him down and taking all his choices with it.

He has two days off. Aditi has been bugging him nearly the entire time, insisting on sleeping in his lap and sitting patiently while he eats breakfast at his table. She's not even asking for food; she's waiting for him to go somewhere she can cuddle.

She reminds him of Dean sometimes, though probably not in the way his friends would think.

He settles on the couch with the burner phone in hand. He'd been careful at the beginning to make sure his number wouldn't be visible on Dean's end, so Dean can't call him. He can only wait for Castiel.

 _"Hello?"_ Dean sounds sleepy.

"Dean," Castiel says in greeting.

 _"Hey,"_ Dean says, sounding like he's perking up.

"Late night?" Castiel asks.

 _"Yeah, salt and burn,"_ Dean says, after a moment of hesitation. Probably curious if Castiel really wanted to know.

Bread and butter of a hunter. Castiel searches for something to say; he's not even sure why he called.

Dean takes the opportunity to say, _"I, uh, wanted to tell you something."_

"Yes?"

 _"I've been thinking a lot about what – what I did to you."_ Dean breathes for a second. _"I cuffed you like an animal."_

Castiel tenses up, Aditi shifting in his lap. That's the last thing he expected Dean to say. "Sometimes you made me feel like one. A pet to keep."

 _"Fuck."_ Dean breathes wetly, and Castiel listens, feeling a bit of shock. _"Cas, I – I have to confess something. You told me – when you were sick and out of it – that you were losing yourself. And you were. You're a fucking agent of the FBI, and I locked you in a room and kept you there and patted myself on the back when I let you go outside after six fucking months. I wish I could say I wish I knew why I did all that to you, but the truth is … the truth is, I put that away. I knew it. And I didn't let myself think about it, because I was selfish, and I told myself I could take care of you when_ I was the one hurting you. _I get that now. I made that decision. Me. No one else. And I put you through hell."_

Words, any kind of answer that Castiel could have given, simply flee from him at those last words.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ Dean says brokenly and, for once, he hangs up first.

Castiel slowly takes the phone from his ear and stares at it. Call ended: duration, 1:47.

He blinks, and realizes he's crying. He sits there in silence for nearly ten minutes before realizing why. Castiel weeps not because Dean is in pain, or even that he himself is. He weeps because now that Dean has said the words, he knows he truly did suffer through that, and it's okay.

* * *

 _"Hello?"_

"Tell me," Castiel says.

And Dean confesses, as if Castiel is his priest. It comes in waves and trickles, like Dean's understanding flows. Castiel calls him, and instead of Castiel confessing his pain, Dean confesses to his crimes. Castiel can watch as Dean reevaluates the past, working through it seemingly randomly. Certainly not chronologically. He can tell when Dean's been busy, because his confessions get smaller. But when he's home, in the bunker, they get longer. More detailed. Castiel wonders if being there makes him remember. It must be strange to be there without Castiel, but living with all those memories.

But Dean doesn't stop.

 _"And I just realized that, fuck, all that nice stuff I did? I thought was nice fucking stuff. I thought I was doing something for you, but I wanted – I wanted you to like me. I was manipulating you as much as I was caring for you, and fuck Cas, that fucked you up, didn't it? That's all my fault."_

 _"All the times that I made you put the cuff on? Fuck. That must've fucked so much with your head, being forced to cooperate with me keeping you prisoner."_

 _"You even – you even came on to me just because you were hurting. And I knew it, I saw it, and I rejected you then but Cas, you were always hurting. And I was always taking advantage of it."_

 _"I gave you Aditi to keep you company, when I was the one who isolated you. And I was proud of myself for thinking of it."_

Dean breathes. _"You know, I felt like if I stopped hunting I wouldn't deserve you anymore. But I never deserved you. You weren't something to earn."_

 _"After I escaped from the FBI and I told you about your brother … Cas. When I reminded you of what you'd lost, you'd start sex. Because of how alone I made you feel."_

 _"Fuck, Cas. I hurt you so badly that you cut the shit out of yourself. And to cut that deep with a knife that dull …"_

When Dean confesses, it's always with emotion.

* * *

Castiel and Stephen are on the bed, kissing. Castiel's sitting on top of Stephen's thighs, and Stephen is propped up against the bed's backboard, with his hands under Castiel's shirt, stroking his ribs, fingers wandering over the old scar from a bullet wound. Stephen lingers on it, but then Castiel doubts he's ever had another lover with a scar like that. They're both aroused, though Castiel is only partially hard, part of his excitement born out of anxiety.

It startles Castiel when Stephen's other hand dips low, to where his pajama pants lie on his hip. To the scars that are still there, that Castiel put there himself. Or maybe Dean did, just not with his own hands. He can feel the tension that works through Stephen's body, the unasked question.

Castiel puts his hand over Stephen's.

"Sorry, I'm sorry –" Stephen begins.

"It's okay," Castiel whispers. "Do you want to know how I got them?"

Stephen lifts that hand to Castiel's cheek. "If you want to tell me."

Castiel slides his head past that hand and lays his head on Stephen's shoulder, whispering into his skin, "It was after my third and last escape attempt. We fought and I lost, and he made me put that ankle cuff back on. My chain. That's when I gave up."

Stephen puts his arms around Castiel and holds on.

"I sank into a deep depression. The next time that Dean left the bunker, left me alone, I had a breakdown." Castiel takes Stephen's hand and puts it back on the scars. Stephen's hand trembles. "And I did this. I did this to myself. And after that, I realized – I realized -"

"Castiel, you don't have to say –"

Castiel raises his head and puts his hand over Stephen's mouth. "I realized that for all he'd done to me, he was all I had, and that I had to accept that. Accept him."

A mix of horrified understanding and confusion mix in Stephen's eyes.

"If there would be thing I want you to understand about the eighteen months Dean kept me prisoner, it's that I did love him." Castiel takes his hand away, but Stephen just stares at him with intense sorrow in his eyes. He doesn't understand. He probably sees it the same way that Castiel's team does, as not love, but a twisted connection that Dean forced. Castiel knows that in truth it is both. "I'll never be the person I was before."

"Well," Stephen says, hoarsely, "the only Castiel I know is the one in front of me. And I like him."

Castiel laughs, his vision going blurry. "I'm sorry that I have to drag you into this – this fucked up thing."

"It's okay," Stephen says. "This is what you need. I get that."

"What about what you need?" Castiel asks. "What if I can't give you what you need?"

"You do," Stephen says with a sad smile. "I've always been a caregiver. I always wanted to take care of someone. Taking care of you is a gift."

Castiel kisses him, smiling.

"Better?"

Castiel nods.

"I think we should sleep," Stephen says, neatly sidestepping the issue of sex.

Maybe that kind of awareness and comfort have always shone out of Stephen. Perhaps it's even what drew him to Castiel in the first place. Castiel hadn't exactly been giving off healthy, happy vibes in that bar, and yet Stephen came to him anyway, to talk to him and flirt. He keeps coming back, even after Castiel fully revealed just how damaged he is. Being Castiel's first male relationship also makes things rockier, more uncertain. Castiel knows that.

He's pretty sure Stephen does, too.

* * *

The BAU's last case had them in the field for three weeks. It was a difficult case, though one that ended on a happy note – they tracked down the unsub, a serial killer of prostitutes, before he could kill his last victim. She was out of the hospital in a matter of days. Castiel was instrumental in figuring out where he was keeping his victims. So they come home, take a few days off to recover from three weeks of working straight through weekends and sleep, and then JJ reserves a table at the team's favorite restaurant and they all go.

It's one of those darker restaurants, serving 'elevated' American dishes. Castiel is halfway through his completely self indulgent massive pimiento cheese burger when he gets asked the question.

"I stopped by your apartment about a month ago, and your neighbor said you'd been out for two days," Morgan says. "But you were coming to work. What gives?"

Castiel blushes.

JJ, sitting next to him, is the only one to see it. "Oh oh," she says. "Does Castiel have a girlfriend?" she teases.

"A boyfriend," he reluctantly corrects, not because of the gender, but because he's admitting to his coworkers that he's dating. And that alone is going to get questions.

"Same guy?" Morgan asks.

"Wait, you knew?" JJ responds, mock-outraged.

"Details!" Penelope cries.

Hotchner stays silent, but he looks amused, and he's watching Castiel. Reid does the same. Castiel's pretty sure it's out of respect for the possibility Castiel doesn't want to talk about this. Given the unavoidable fact he's avoided bringing it up.

Rossi adds, "You can't leave our minds whirling after that revelation."

Castiel sighs and puts his burger down. Really, they're all trying to be supportive, and he knows that. Their interest is for his sake, not simply for their own curiosity. So he says, "His name is Stephen, he's an investment banker, we've been dating three months. Yes, I checked him out, and he's a perfectly normal guy."

Penelope squeals. "Honey, I'm so happy for you!" The flower in her hair shakes with her excitement. Castiel thinks she might have leaped over the table and hugged him if it'd been socially acceptable. Instead she just vibrates. "When do we get to meet him?"

Castiel groans. It's half acting, half genuine. Stephen would love to meet his friends – Castiel's been the one putting it off. His reluctance is mostly due to the fact that having those two portions of his life meet is terrifying. His relationship with Stephen is at times shaky and muddy, not through any fault of Stephen's, but because of Castiel's issues. He still doesn't know if it will work, long term. He's not assuming it won't, and he's not taking it lightly, but he also didn't want to deal with the team's reaction if the relationship ended, and now he will, one way or another. "I don't know, later."

"Come on, guys," Rossi says, seeing it, "leave the poor guy alone. We'll meet this fellow when he's ready."

"Thank you," Castiel says, relieved.

They don't entirely drop the subject – JJ talks about her husband, Morgan mentions his girlfriend, and they talk about relationships and work. But Castiel ceases to be the central focus, and that's enough for now.

His friends want to do right by him, he knows. But somehow them knowing feels invasive. Almost like just by asking about Stephen, they are by extension asking about Dean. That's not the intention, but that's how Castiel feels. It makes him uncomfortable. The quiet ease he'd had with the BAU team has never fully recovered. He's no longer as close to Reid as he once was, and even Morgan, with all the effort he's put in, Castiel isn't as close to as he once was. It doesn't pain him, most of the time.

He does his best to relax the rest of the dinner, then goes home to Aditi and breathes out the panic.

* * *

A week later, Castiel's curled up in bed with a stress fracture in his ankle. He still hasn't let Stephen into his home (or let him know where it is – Castiel can almost hear Dr. Katz reminding him of hypervigilance), but he's also not quite willing to commit to spending a week in Stephen's apartment while he heals enough to hobble. So he's here, alone except for Aditi, in bed with a pillow under his ankle and a comforter loosely arranged around his body, along with a promise by Reid, Penelope and Morgan to stop by to make sure he's got what he needs. He's taking tomorrow off, but he'll probably do his best to go back to work with a pair of crutches (with a carpool, most likely, he can't drive since it's his right ankle) the day after. He doesn't have a cast, fortunately, just a boot, so he can unstrap it and scratch itches as needed.

He's also a bit woozy from the painkillers.

The bed is very comfortable. For the first time in a few days, he's able to really relax. And the forced inactivity makes his mind linger on things that he's usually too busy for.

He calls Dean.

 _"Yeah?"_

"I get it now, Dean. Why I talk to you."

 _"Why's that, Cas?"_

The words stay in his throat, hurting. It will hurt just as much to say it. Finally, "Because I don't want to be alone. You're the only person who will ever understand."

There's static over the line as Dean silently breathes. Then, _"I felt the same way. Before you. Those forty years in hell changed me, forever. And Sam couldn't understand. He tried, by God he tried, but he couldn't comprehend it. But he and I – we still stuck together. We stayed brothers. They probably won't ever understand all of what I did to you, all the suffering I put you through, but maybe, Cas, they don't need to, not for them to be enough for you to hold onto."_

"I know I need them, Dean, but I – need you, too," Castiel confesses, hating it, knowing it's true. "Not here, with me, but in some way I still do need you."

 _"Then I'll be here."_

* * *

Late night walks are out, so Castiel stays at home and calls Dean.

Dean works through his crimes, bit by bit. Castiel offers very little commentary. At first because it hurts to remember it all from his own perspective, then because he didn't know what to say, and now because he knows that the fact that Dean can recognize his crimes against Castiel independently is a good thing.

Castiel always had a pattern when it came to understanding Dean. Emotional first, then intellectual. His heart first, then his training. He watches as Dean figures out the depth of his crimes against Castiel, and thinks that Dean must be so quick at this because that part of Dean, that good part, was always there.

He simply listens as Dean details how he kidnapped Castiel, told him he was home, offered comfort only when Castiel acted in a way that Dean wanted, and withdrew comfort when Castiel didn't, like his first and second escape. His third didn't prompt the same reaction because Castiel broke. He pressured Castiel into kissing, causing Castiel to throw up in panic and fear. _"I did that, Cas,"_ he says. He stripped Castiel nude while unconscious, for medical care that he made necessary. He got a good look. He was aroused, while he looked at the man he was holding prisoner.

 _"I put my own needs above yours, every single fucking time."_

Castiel knew he was succumbing to Stockholm Syndrome. He stated this to Dean repeatedly. Dean remembers this, very clearly, even if Castiel has mostly forgotten, his complicated feelings for Dean being too much for him to diagnose, too much to label. Dean tells Castiel how he refused to acknowledge this and how he convinced himself Castiel's actions were genuine affection, because that's what he wanted to believe.

Castiel still doesn't know what he'd call his affection for Dean. But not fake. Fucked up maybe, born out of pain, but not fake.

 _"The first time we had sex, that I raped you, was right after you had a breakdown about your brother, and you were emotionally weak – vulnerable. You were vulnerable, and I took advantage of that. When you panicked, Cas, I held you down like that would comfort you, but it was only … it was only you giving in. Fuck. That's so fucked. You were crying, Cas, how could I not stop?"_

And after that, Castiel self-harmed for the first time. He remembers. He remembers, too, choosing to give in, and telling himself it was Dean's responsibility. And now Dean is finally taking that responsibility.

 _"I was your world, and the only comfort you got was when you did what I wanted. And that's – that's cold, Cas. I took everything from you, and only gave you what you really needed when I got what I wanted. I mean, I go back and I think about it, and I only gave you comfort when you did what I wanted. Letting me stay in the same bed, which was a crappy deal all it's own, but whenever you acted exactly like you should and tried to escape, I withdrew that. From you."_

Castiel rubs his ankle. His left, not the broken one.

 _"You know, when I think about it, Alastair did the same kind of thing to me. Except it was – well, the methods were different, but the concept was the same. Maybe that's where I learned it, I dunno. I mean, I don't think it was conscious on my part, but there's a lot that I shoved away, didn't want to think about."_

There's a pain in Dean's confessions, not just on Dean's side, but on Castiel's as well. But it feels cathartic, to have Dean name his crimes. Not just the ones that Castiel remembers and lingers on, either, but the ones he didn't even see or doesn't remember. Like when Dean asked Castiel if he wanted to go free when Castiel was too concussed to answer. In a way, that's how Castiel knows that Dean isn't saying any of this to appease Castiel. He's not repeating it back to Castiel. He's figuring it out, on an intellectual and emotional level.

It hurts, but it's a relief, too. So Castiel listens, and thinks, and analyzes. He thinks about Dean, and he thinks about his training. He finally says, "It's not uncommon for trauma victims to sometimes inflict what they suffered on others. Child abuse can be cyclical that way, and other things, too."

He can almost feel Dean's nod, and the hesitation that follows. _"Cas … I wanna ask something. And I don't mean it like, like the abuse I put you through wasn't there. But was it all bad? Being with me?"_

"No, Dean, it wasn't all bad. But the good doesn't outweigh the evil. It's not a scale." Castiel pauses, wanting to make sure Dean understands. "I'm not a scale."

 _"I guess I want to feel like I'm not pure evil. And that's selfish –"_

"Dean." Castiel swallows. "You're not. I've seen pure evil, as close as you can get in human beings. You're not it." As much anger and pain he feels towards and about Dean, there's still affection there, too. For the man who joked and played games with him, and lost horribly at Monopoly. Castiel knows that many victims of many crimes find it disconcerting to hear about the not so clearly evil sides of their abusers, but he's never denied Dean's essential humanity that way.

 _"I'm sorry."_

Castiel looks up at the blank ceiling, then at one of his black and white nature photographs on the wall. "Dean, before this, did you think of yourself as mostly a good person?"

Dean takes a moment to reply. _"I guess so. Not all the time. But I tried to do good, I guess."_

"Your sense of identity has always revolved around being a hunter, Dean, from a very young age. You built your personality upon that. Upon your father, but also as your father as a hunter. Saving people, hunting things. I think when you went to hell and broke, it broke your sense of self at the same time." Castiel pauses, but Dean says nothing. "Your sense of who you are, what you're capable of. I'm betting after you came back you dove right back into hunting, the sexual promiscuity, all of that. Trying to make things exactly how they were before. Am I right?"

 _"Yeah,"_ Dean whispers.

"When you took me, when you kidnapped me and decided to keep me prisoner, that broke your already fragile sense of identity. You knew you were being the bad guy, Dean. And you didn't want to see that. I think that's ultimately what all your rationalizations were about. You still wanted to see yourself as a good person, even though you knew you were doing this awful thing. Awful things, to me."

 _"It sounds even more fucked up when you put it like that."_

"Dean, if you were pure evil you wouldn't have rationalized it all. You wouldn't have felt the need to justify it to yourself, or deny anything you were doing. Abusers will rationalize and justify to their victims, but not to themselves. It's a calculated act."

 _"But you don't think I'm making this up? I wouldn't blame if you did –"_

"I don't," Castiel admits. "That's not your way. And you didn't do that at the time, not really. You begged me to stop fighting you, fighting for my freedom, but you didn't justify kidnapping me, not to my face."

 _"You sound so – calm, putting it that way."_

"Distance helps," Castiel says, smiling sadly at no one. "I'm not saying you didn't do harm, and harm that you should have been able to avoid."

 _"Right. Being fucked in the head about it doesn't make me not guilty. I get that,"_ and Dean says it calmly, and Castiel can almost see him nodding. Accepting.

Castiel considers that. "Dean, you've been thinking about this a lot."

 _"Um, yeah. I did some looking into domestic violence. Not – not so I know what to say to you, I swear. The first time you called and you told me I didn't even know what I'd done to you, you were right. I realized you were right. When I held you prisoner, like – shit. One sec."_

Bemused and a little nervous, Castiel waits.

 _"Some of this shit I totally did."_ Dean breathes heavily for a second, then there's a tapping sound.

Castiel realizes with some shock that Dean must be looking at his laptop. Dean did actual research into this? Dean has it ready to look at? He'd accepted and come to trust that Dean was telling the truth during his confessions, that he told the truth when he said he was listening to all of Castiel's rants. But he never really thought Dean would take it this far, would even be capable of accepting that their situation was comparable to anyone else's. Castiel's not even sure he feels that way. He can categorize it to a degree, but the details always fail to perfectly materialize along the guidelines of a disorder or a syndrome. For him or Dean.

He sits in bed, a little stunned.

 _"I'd beat the crap out of you, I'd abuse you, and then, like you said, I'd beg you not to fight like fighting was your fault when really, that's totally the fucking right thing to do. I even said I couldn't lose you! That's fucking sick, putting that on you, making you feel guilty for doing the rational thing and wanting to get the fuck away. And then, um, 'normal behavior' for a while. I did that, and tried to be nice to you, like letting you go outside was fucking_ nice."

It takes some mental wrangling, but Castiel gets himself on topic. He knows what Dean is referring to, the cycle of violence – physical or emotional – in a domestic relationship. He answered more than one domestic violence call while a uniformed police officer, and it's relevant in his BAU job as well. "You never fantasized about hurting me." That much he knows is true. That's not in Dean's nature, not for someone he loves, no matter how unhealthy that love is.

 _"And, and isolation. Fuck. Need I say more? Yeah, probably. Eighteen months, Cas, and I acted like letting you out would make you better after all of that."_

"Dean –"

But Dean doesn't stop. _"And there's stuff here about victims, too. That I saw in you. Psychological warning signs, Cas. I took pretty much all your confidence away. When I think about how fragile you were the first time I took you out, when I even fucking suggested taking you out of the bunker – I fucked you over. You were so withdrawn from everything for so long, even from me, and I was all you had. Depressed? Anxious? Suicidal?"_ Dean snorts, then quiets. _"Were you? Suicidal?"_

Castiel swallows. "Not really. I never reached that point, though it's possible I may have eventually." He pauses. "Cutting myself was more about emotional release than flirting with killing myself."

Choked noises come across the line. After a moment, Castiel realizes that Dean is sobbing.

Castiel clenches the phone, at a loss for how to respond. His own eyes sting.

 _"Cas,"_ Dean finally says, the word strangled. _"I'm so sorry."_

"Dean, I think – I think you need to calm down and rest."

 _"I don't need to fucking rest. I don't deserve to –"_

"Dean. I am giving you an order. Turn off the computer and go to bed."

Dean is silent. Then, very quietly, _"Okay. Okay."_

Castiel almost says something reassuring, but stops himself. "Goodbye, Dean."

Aditi wakes up from her nap in the living room and pads over to Castiel, still in bed. He pets her, still feeling a little unbalanced.

He remembers that the final stage of confession is absolution.

He's not there yet. Maybe never will be.

Castiel shivers and pulls the covers up to his neck, and takes fifteen minutes of meditation to calm himself down. Once the trembling stops, he takes a mental step back and thinks like an agent from the BAU, not Dean's victim.

Dean has clearly done research into domestic abuse in particular. Morgan or the others might have found that significant – he thinks of Castiel as an intimate partner – and that's not entirely wrong, but Castiel knows it's more likely that was just the obvious place to start. There's a lot more research and resources available for domestic violence than they are for Stockholm Syndrome victims (or perpetrators, for that matter). If Dean is serious, and he appears to be, about fixing the behavior that led him to hold Castiel prisoner, then it's a fairly good beginning.

Castiel has a choice now. Dean is moving forward, knocking down dominoes. The question is whether Castiel attempts to guide him down that path or not. It's not his job, strictly speaking – he's the victim, not Dean's therapist, but at the same time, Dean can't reasonably expect to safely see a psychologist, much less join a battering intervention program, which is a group class. Dean is wanted by the FBI as well as various states, and those programs are closely connected to law enforcement. Castiel is his only option besides going to prison, which isn't the safest place for Dean for reasons that have nothing to do with other prisoners.

Of course, Castiel doesn't owe Dean safety. But he doesn't want Dean harmed nonetheless.

He's not a psychologist or a therapist, but he knows the basics of the psychology behind Dean's actions. He might be able to help Dean. And perhaps himself, in the process.

* * *

"You sure you don't need me to go to the store?" Reid asks, watching carefully as Castiel maneuvers his crutches out of the car. He doesn't ask if Castiel needs help, knowing that Castiel wants to practice using his crutches, since he's stuck with them for a few more weeks. "You know I'll remember your grocery list."

Castiel smiles at him. "For the next few weeks my grocery list is fast food places that deliver."

"I've got a few of those," Reid offers. Of course memorized.

"Write me a list, then," Castiel says.

They make it to Castiel's apartment without trouble. Fortunately, though the apartment building isn't that new, there are elevators and they're always working, otherwise Castiel probably would have been stuck at Stephen's, and that would have involved a whole host of social interactions – not just between him and Stephen – that he doesn't want to navigate right now. He makes it to his door, only to drop his keys.

Reid picks them up for him without comment.

"Thanks."

Castiel settles on the couch, with his right leg straight. Reid writes a list of good fast food places, and hands him the paper.

"JJ said she'd be by on Saturday. Text me tomorrow so I know you're not dead."

Or kidnapped? Castiel almost says, then decides it's a poor joke. "Will do."

Five minutes of mother-henning later, Castiel's alone. He orders Chinese food for a chance of pace, and waits until he has to get up anyway to answer the door before grabbing the burner cell from the pot. The delicious smell of pork and fried rice makes him forego the intended call until his stomach is full. Then he sits back and doesn't take his next painkiller dose. Fifteen minutes later, his personal cell beeps. He checks it.

Stephen. _How are you doing? Still walking around on a bum leg? You know I could pick you up, grab a movie, dinner …_

Castiel hesitates, biting his lip, then replies, _Maybe tomorrow?_

 _You taking a taxi?_ Stephen asks.

 _You can pick me up._

 _REALLY?_

Castiel laughs a little, and replies, _Yes._

Stephen starts sending partying emojis. Castiel smiles at his phone fondly. He puts it aside.

Then he grabs the burner cell. Dean's cell, it's starting to become in his own mind. He dials.

 _"Hello?"_

"Dean," Castiel says.

 _"Hey, Cas. How, um, how are you doing?"_

"Bum ankle. I don't think I mentioned that. But it's healing."

 _"Yeah? Hairline fracture or a sprain?"_

Of course Dean would be able to guess. He's had enough injuries on his job. "Hairline fracture."

 _"Those are nasty if you don't let'em heal,"_ Dean advises.

"Yes, Dean, I know," Castiel says. "It's actually not my first." Deciding to change the topic, he asks, "What have you been up to?"

 _"Well. Been pretty quiet out there lately. A few ghosts, one vampire that I'm still trying to work out where it came from, the usual. Other than that, I've been – thinking. And still looking into things."_

Castiel takes a deep breath. "I've been doing some thinking myself. I told you I wanted you to understand what I went through."

 _"I've been trying, Cas. I swear."_

"I know, Dean." Castiel's hand on the phone feels slippery. "But there's something I want you to address. To question. You should ask yourself, Dean, why you chose to keep me prisoner in the first place. Why you chose control over your sense of morality."

Dean doesn't answer immediately. _"And if I want to understand what you went through better?"_

"Look up grooming."

 _"Okay."_ There's a small clatter on the other end, but all Dean says is, _"I want to do better."_

Castiel swallows. "Then figure out where you went wrong." And quietly hangs up.

He feels – scared. That he's asking Dean to delve into a part of himself that caused Castiel so much suffering. What if Dean becomes unbalanced, when he's already so close to that edge of insanity? Dean is too self-aware to be using this as a method to get Castiel back, but that doesn't mean his mental state is a healthy one as he goes through this. Castiel knows about the various research studies done on domestic violence abusers, and knows what the abusers who successfully don't re-offend need to do: feel guilt, take responsibility, feel motivated to change values, be willing to examine the effect of childhood abuse (relevant in Dean's case, from the gaps in how Dean talks about his father and childhood), understand that dominating behaviors need to be stopped. He also knows that simply knowing those things isn't usually enough to stop the person from reoffending – it takes treatment.

He and Dean are more or less stumbling through couples counseling together, without a therapist. Using only research as a guide. It's dangerous and stupid. For that matter, most therapists think that abusers and their victims should never have couples therapy, and that's even in cases of infrequent physical or emotional abuse, much less full on kidnapping. Dr. Katz would probably pull him from field duty, even if Dean were only an ex-partner and not wanted for his kidnapping and multiple serial crimes.

But it still feels like the right thing to do.

* * *

"Come to bed?" Stephen asks, fluffing his pillow and then rubbing his eyes.

Castiel eyes the bed, then Stephen. His stomach is roiling. He talked to Dr. Katz about this moment extensively, playing it out verbally, making sure Castiel felt comfortable at least in theory. They talked about everything that could go wrong, that Castiel could freak out, that Stephen could freak out, and how to handle each eventuality. Castiel's a planner. Always has been.

Looking a bit sharper after Castiel's silence, Stephen asks, "Something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong," Castiel says, repressing the way his voice wants to tremble. He's supposed to ask Stephen directly, but he can't get the words out, so he takes off his t-shirt, revealing bare skin, and then climbs onto the bed, being careful of his healing ankle. But he doesn't lay down. He licks his lips. "Can we – make out?"

Stephen's expression softens from worry to desire. "Yeah, of course." He sits up and reaches out, and Castiel moves into range, letting Stephen's soft hands settle on his hips, and then they kiss.

It's very gentle at first, because Stephen is being careful, but Castiel doesn't want to be careful. He's afraid, but also anxious to let that go. He wants to feel arousal, to feel passion. He bites Stephen's lip lightly, pulls on it, and sucks on it, feeling his cock harden. Stephen moans at the last, and tries to maneuver Castiel to lie down, but Castiel resists and draws back just enough to say, "Let me be on top."

"Yeah, yes," Stephen says, falling back and letting Castiel climb on top of him. Castiel runs his hands under Stephen's shirt, letting his fingers run through the hair there, then rubbing Stephen's nipples. Stephen bucks up at that, and Castiel can feel the hard line of his cock through his boxers and pajama pants. He's not alone – Castiel's fully erect now, and he puts a thigh between Stephen's legs, and then rubs down.

"You feel good," Castiel tells him, a bit shaky, but very aroused. He adds, because he wants to be clear, "You're making me feel good."

"How far do you want to take this?" Stephen asks, biting at Castiel's jaw and whispering into his skin.

Castiel's glad Stephen asked, because he knows for his own sake he needs to state it out loud. "Can we rub off against each other? Like this?"

Stephen nods. "I'd love to."

With Castiel on top, his leg pressed against Stephen's cock, they establish a rhythm together. Castiel keeps himself propped up with his arms, so he can kiss Stephen, but it does mean he can't really touch Stephen. Stephen doesn't seem to care, running his hands down Castiel's sides, past the bullet scar, running past the scars on his hip without any hesitation, not lingering. He traces Castiel's ribs, thrusting up, before he finally rubs his palms against Castiel's nipples. He doesn't touch Castiel's cock directly, but he puts his thigh up, so Castiel can rub against it easily. Castiel leans in, kisses him, and says, "Don't stop."

Castiel doesn't know how much time passes, but he can feel himself getting close. He can smell Stephen's arousal now, and feel the damp spot from Stephen's cock as Stephen thrusts against him, and far from scaring him, it's turning him on further. Dean flits in and out of his mind, but he keeps his conscious mind completely focused on the present. The person he is with.

"Stephen," Castiel moans, and then comes. His body locks up, and then he falls forward, but Stephen catches him so they don't painfully collide, and eases him so that Castiel is lying next to him. Castiel loses himself a bit in the aftermath, aftershocks taking most of his attention as he shivers in pleasure. After a moment, he realizes Stephen is still hard – hasn't reached orgasm yet.

Stephen reaches into his own boxers, clearly stroking himself. His eyes are dark and wild, his mouth open as he pants, but he's staring at Castiel as he does it.

Castiel barely hesitates as he reaches over, and rubs Stephen's cock through his clothing. He curls his hand around Stephen's shaft, and that's all it takes – Stephen's back arches as he comes into Castiel's hand. "Fuck!" Then Stephen relaxes back into bed, body quivering.

Castiel feels giddy. He grins when Stephen finally gets control of his breathing and turns his head to look at him.

Stephen slowly returns that smile. Castiel reaches out and places his palm on Stephen's cheek, letting himself explore the planes of Stephen's face. It's not the first time he's done this, memorizing the way Stephen feels, but also paying attention to the way Stephen is different – to the things that are unique to Stephen. He gets a five o'clock shadow only after a few days, and his facial hair always grows in soft. Castiel lets his fingers linger over Stephen's lips, then he says, "Thank you."

"Thank _you_ ," Stephen says. "For trusting me with yourself."

Castiel can't say anything to that. They clean up separately in the bathroom, and Castiel redresses before climbing into bed, but when they curl up against each other, it doesn't feel like a barrier anymore.

* * *

Castiel's ankle heals before he calls Dean again.

It's partly to give Dean time to think, partly for Castiel to exert control, and partly because he's busy. The BAU gets a formal review, which ends up taking a huge amount of Castiel's time because he's the only one (besides Penelope) not in the field. Well, and Hotchner. Hotchner never gets out of things like that, since he's the boss. Castiel's not really sure how Hotchner manages, actually.

It's a Saturday afternoon. Most of the time when Castiel calls Dean, it's after work – so at night. But this time Castiel is sitting in an armchair by his window, watching his street. There's small shops on the ground floor across the way, so it's not just a residential area, but a commercial one as well. Castiel's been to the yogurt shop a few times for a late-night snack, but not the dry cleaners. He tends to give up on shirts once blood-stained.

He settles a blanket across his legs and gets comfortable, then dials.

 _"Yeah?"_

"Hello, Dean."

 _"Hi, Cas."_ Dean seems to settle with a huff, like he's been physically active and is now sitting. _"I, um, I've been researching –"_

"I don't want to talk about that," Castiel surprises himself by saying.

Dean is thrown, based on his long silence. _"Okay. What do you want to talk about?"_

What does he want to talk about? He called Dean, so the fact that he wants to talk is implicit. Even to himself. Every phone call with Dean has dealt with pain, mostly his, sometimes Dean's through extension. It's tiring. And yet, he knows so little about Dean otherwise. How he's been coping. He once told Castiel he would kill himself if Castiel left, and Castiel did, and yet Dean is still there. It's not guilt driving his curiosity, he's just – curious.

 _"I can sit in silence, too,"_ Dean says with a bit of humor.

The words come out slow, Castiel thinking about each one as he says it. "What has your life been like?"

 _"You mean since – you escaped?"_ Dean is hesitant.

"Yes."

 _"Um. I don't mind talking about this, but I don't want to make this about me. You sure you want to know?"_

"I want to know," Castiel is able to say without thinking too hard about it.

 _"Lonely."_ Dean pauses. _"In a lot of ways, it feels like how it was just after Sam died. Even like – how I kept seeing his things everywhere. The beer bottle caps I kept finding because Sam has lousy aim while he's drunk. The little notes he put in books. The half-organized mystical object room had a lot of those. Sam had notes everywhere because some of the Men of Letters filing was pretty bad and some of it was lost. Or I'd find his clothes in the laundry. A sock, and I can tell it's his because he had gigantor feet."_ Dean clears his throat. _"So it's like that, but with you, instead."_

"Like what?" Castiel asks, throat tight.

 _"I still sleep in our bed. I mean, the bed – you know what I mean. That bed. It used to smell like you."_ Dean breathes quietly for a few seconds. _"I moved back to my old room after it stopped. Plus by that point the sheets were kind of rank."_ He laughs a little, clearly pained. _"But I went back. For the memories. The good ones, anyway. A lot of the things I did after Sam died, that's what I do. Keep busy. Maintain the shit out of the bunker and keep my ear to the ground about the bigger stuff. It's weird, but I kind of hope something big does happen, just so it takes all my focus and energy, but it's been mostly quiet, just some large vamp nests I've been trying to track the source of. Is – is that what you wanted to know?"_

Partly. Castiel shifts in his chair a little. "Did you ever think you'd have the FBI on your doorstep, out of the blue, one day?"

Dean answers easily. _"Yeah, for a while. Kind of surprised me when a month had passed, honestly. I'd wake up in the middle of the night thinking I'd heard something, things like that … wonder if I should pick up my gun and investigate or y'know, wait. For them. I don't blame you for that, Cas. I mean, that's why I gave the coordinates to you. For it to be your call."_

Castiel stares out the bright window. "I had the same feeling, except it wasn't the FBI, it was you I was listening for." He swallows. "It terrified me."

 _"I'm sorry, Cas."_

Castiel stares out for a few minutes, letting Dean wait. Dean rarely spoke about Sam in any kind of present context. For most people, that would be normal – Sam passed away – but it's not quite the same for Dean, who knows an angel. "Do you think he knows? Sam, I mean? What's been happening down here?"

 _"Um, some. It's kind of hard to get information into normal people's heavens about stuff down here, I know that from experience."_ And Dean does have that experience, having been killed and sent to heaven once. _"It's probably easier, now, then it was back then. If Sam is looking. You know, Sam's a lot smarter than me, and he figures out how not to torture himself with things he can't change. Sam was always better at moving on. So maybe he's not, maybe he is. I dunno."_ Dean pauses. _"I hope he's not. I know I have to answer for it, but … he's my little brother."_

"Dean –"

 _"I fucked up his respect for me years ago, I know that. Lots of ways. But it still feels like I should be the one he looks up to, you know? And this? You? I can't even fucking imagine what he'd say."_

Castiel doesn't know what to say to that.

 _"Sam's a better person than me, you know. Always was. A lot less fucked up in the head, too."_

"You think you're fucked up in the head, Dean?"

 _"Fuck, yes."_ Dean laughs and there's genuine amusement in it. _"Hell really brought that home, but I always was."_

That grabs Castiel's attention. Dean, in some ways, strove to be normal. To be a 'normal' man, despite the lifestyle of a hunter. "Always?"

 _"I lost my mind when Sam left for college,"_ Dean admits. _"He ran away from home once, did you know that? Spent weeks looking for him. And when Dad came home, well."_ Dean trails off.

"What happened when your father came home?" Castiel asks curiously, his gut roiling with his guesses.

There's a long wait for Dean to answer, but he does answer, clearly reluctant. _"He was furious. He said I was total failure, and that if Sam died out there it was my fault. He made me go over everything that happened before and just picked it apart and told me everything I'd done wrong, how I was letting Sam have too much freedom, that I was a fuckup who didn't protect my little brother, that Sam was vulnerable and it was my job to keep him safe."_

"How old were you?"

 _"Sixteen. Definitely knew better by then. In hindsight I don't think I was too lenient with Sam, really, but I should have known any place he was likely to go. I should have had my eye on him constantly."_

"You were only sixteen, Dean, and in charge of a twelve year old."

 _"I'd been taking care of Sam since I was nine, Cas. There wasn't any excuse for it,"_ Dean says shortly. _"I knew what was out there. I knew what I had to do."_

"You were a child, Dean, taking care of another child," Castiel objects.

 _"I was the kid of a hunter, Cas."_

Perhaps that's exactly the problem. John Winchester clearly put an incredible amount of not only psychological pressure, but emotional pressure as well, to succeed in a task that surmounted what even a normal sixteen year old taking care of a twelve year old would. Or a nine year old, with a five year old. And to say those things to Dean, at that age, or any age, was emotional abuse. Dean's never used that term to refer to his father, but Castiel's seen the abrupt silences when John comes up in any context besides his hunting.

John deliberately attached Dean to Sam to an unhealthy degree. He might have done out of fear, but it skewed Dean's sense of self and self-esteem immensely. Obligation and duty have always followed Dean's discussion of Sam, along with intense need.

The same intense need, really, that caused him to kidnap Castiel and rendered him unable to let Castiel go.

"But you let Sam go," Castiel says quietly.

 _"Yeah. I did. It was his choice, Cas. And after so many times I failed to respect that, I had to – I_ had _to respect that. Sam'll always be my little brother, but he was a man, too,"_ Dean whispers. _"A good man."_

"Was it always like that, with John and you? About Sam?"

 _"That or hunting. I mean, Dad loved me. Dad went to hell for me, Cas, I'm not saying he didn't. But he was a man on a mission, y'know? Personal chat wasn't part of the deal."_ Castiel can picture Dean's shrug. _"It was what it was."_

"You don't blame him."

 _"Dad and Sam were a lot alike. Except that when I killed the yellow-eyed demon that killed Mom and Jess, if it hadn't been for me going to hell, then Sam would've moved on. He talked about it beforehand. The hunting gig was always gonna be temporary. But Dad? I don't know. After so man years, I don't think it ever would've been over."_ Dean sighs. _"I guess what I'm trying to say is, I get the mindset."_

"It sounds like you always felt you were secondary, Dean. To your brother, or to your father."

 _"Not to Sam,"_ Dean objects. _"I mean, kinda yes, in the beginning. But I figured out eventually that it wasn't about leaving me. It was about Sam having his own life."_

If Castiel was there with Dean, he'd be staring at him in disbelief. "Dean, that is precisely where you failed with me."

Dean is quiet.

"It wasn't about leaving you, Dean. Even before I came to love you. It was about having my own life. My own choices."

Dean whispers, _"I know I've got abandonment issues. That's putting it fucking lightly."_

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Dean?" Castiel presses.

 _"I do, yeah. I – I see it. What I needed because all twisted up with justifying it, 'cause I didn't want to lose someone so important to me again."_ Dean's voice trembles. _"And I hurt you, just like I hurt Sam, except worse. Because I didn't chain him to me. I knew better, back then. How I got from there to you, sometimes, Cas, it seems so fucking clear. And sometimes I just can't figure out how I did it."_

Maybe that's a good thing. Seeing and understanding, and yet on another level not being able to put the pieces together in a way that makes sense. Because they don't, not morally, and apart from his family, Dean's always had a strong sense of right and wrong. Dean's deep ability to love has been twisted by the emotional abuse his father committed against him, and then again and again by the torments of his life. "But you do understand."

 _"I think so, yeah. And it horrifies me. How I did that. How I could have ever done that to you."_

"Why did you choose control over what you knew was right, Dean?" Castiel asks quietly. The crux of the issue.

 _"Sam left me. He left me alone. And I can die, Cas. I can put myself six feet in the ground, and that's probably what I should have done."_ Dean's voice breaks. _"But I didn't think I could stand not to be loved."_

Castiel sits, stunned by the depth of that. And the intense wave of compassion those words have wrought in him. As much as Dean intellectually understood Sam's decision to die to close hell, emotionally he still perceived it as Sam failing to love Dean how Dean loved Sam.

 _"I'm sorry."_

"You are loved, Dean. I don't want you to doubt that." Whether by Castiel, even Castiel can't say. He thinks yes, but he can't say that. He can't. "Your father and brother loved you. I'm sure they still do, in heaven."

 _"Still?"_ Dean whispers.

"Yes, Dean. Still."

 _"You're a better man than me, Cas."_

Good? Bad? It's not quite that simple for Castiel, not when referring to Dean. Castiel was always capable of seeing stereotypically evil people as complex and multi-layered. It was a perspective he had to keep, in order to be sure his work wasn't influenced by his bias (at least not more than was understandable for a profiler). Dean muddled that perspective beyond recognition. Castiel's own personal feelings are too intermixed in his understanding of Dean's psychology. He's never going to see Dean objectively, nor does he feel a strong drive to do so. Because on some level, he knows Dean. In his gut, or his heart.

Dean sniffs, then says, voice wet, _"You've given me a lot to think about. Can we end this here?"_

"Of course, Dean." Castiel doesn't intend to push Dean to the point of breaking him. That's not the point.

 _"Night, Cas,"_ and Dean quietly hangs up.

* * *

Castiel's life now is one of layers, kept separate from each other on the surface, forever mixing beneath it. He doesn't talk about Dean to his team at all, as it's simply too risky that they would see something or catch an error on Castiel's part that he doesn't want caught. Stephen is easier. Castiel can talk about Dean as long as it's in the past tense. If he slips, Stephen doesn't see the significance. He assumes that Castiel is talking about how Dean affects him in the present, which isn't a bad assumption to make, really. Unlike everyone else Castiel knows, he just isn't a profiler.

There's Castiel's normal life, and then there's Dean. Hidden away, over the phone, but just as much as Dr. Katz's words affect Castiel's state of mind, so do Dean's.

It's dangerous. But it doesn't feel dangerous.

Whether Dean would actually be capable of holding to his word if he knew exactly where Castiel was is debatable, even to Castiel's biased thinking. But Dean is trying so desperately to fulfill his word and his promise to understand all the harm he caused Castiel. Castiel can see that, and he believes it's true. And to have Dean acknowledge it, so clearly, again and again, soothes a part of Castiel he didn't even know needed it.

Perhaps because on some level and to some degree, he respects Dean.

Dr. Katz says Castiel's doing incredibly well. She's continuing to give updates to Hotchner about Castiel's general state of mind (healthy or unhealthy, with no details) while Castiel is on probation. All told, the probation will probably last a year. Castiel has a few months left before seeing Dr. Katz is no longer required. He doesn't know yet if he'll continue to see her or not. Talking over his relationship with Stephen helps, certainly. It's not something he wants to bring up to Dean for a multitude of very good reasons, even if Dean were willing. Which he might be, out of that same desperation to make amends.

But Castiel doesn't want to put him through that. And he feels a need for privacy when it comes to Stephen, anyway.

A case puts Castiel in the hospital for a day with a blow to the head. Other than the spectacular amount of blood and stitches, Castiel's fine – not even a concussion. Reid was even able to tease him about being an injury magnet since his return, but Castiel doesn't think this one will hold him back for long.

At home, the only place he ever calls Dean, he curls up in bed and dials.

 _"Hello?"_

"Dean."

 _"Cas, been a while."_ Dean sounds relaxed for once, though subdued.

"I've been busy," Castiel says, resisting the urge to scratch. "Got a few stitches on my forehead."

 _"Are you okay?"_ More stress in his intonation.

"I'm fine, I'll be back to work tomorrow."

 _"Good, I'm glad you're okay."_

Castiel waits a second to see if Dean will say anything else, then asks, "Are you okay?"

 _"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Been doing a lot of thinking. About you, mostly."_

Last time they spoke, the discussion was about Dean, and since that's what Castiel asked Dean to think about, he finds this interesting. "What about me?"

 _"You mentioned grooming, so I looked it up,"_ Dean says. There's an increase in static and some clunking noises, maybe a door opening and closing. _"And I did. I groomed you to accept me. To have sex with me."_

Castiel knows that while the common perception is that grooming happens to children who are then sexually exploited, it happens just as often to adults. Usually they are adults who are primed somehow for the abuse, whether they have a mental illness, are elderly, have a history of abuse that will make them more susceptible, or just the psychological and emotional makeup that would render it easy for a predator to manipulate them. There's usually a series of steps involved, during which the predator insinuates himself or herself into the victim's life. "Yes," Castiel says cautiously. He doesn't think Dean always consciously groomed him, but he definitely did it to a degree, like training Castiel to like anal sex.

 _"I told you were special to me."_ Dean huffs a laugh, dry. _"And I mean, you are, I wasn't exactly lying, but it was also manipulative. Like that was somehow supposed to convince you that I should mean something to you. And I deliberately gave you all kinds of attention, telling you how much I liked you and admired you, and that I thought about you all the time. I wanted you to like me. I wanted you to trust me, and I do like and admire you, but I used that. I know I did. Especially in the beginning, before I actually knew you. Cas, not FBI Special Agent Castiel Novak."_ Dean pauses. _"It's not like I have a natural huge amount of respect for law enforcement."_

For some reason, that last sentence makes Castiel smile. But he stays silent.

 _"I isolated you from everyone and everything. I fucking chained you to the floor, 'physical isolation' doesn't even really begin to cover it."_

"I know," Castiel says softly.

Dean gives him a steady flow of words, with almost no hesitation, like this is something Dean's laid out in his head beforehand. _"Forced teaming, making you feel like you were on my side. Telling you all that stuff about myself, all those secrets. Fuck, telling you how special I was. The whole apocalypse thing, a couple times over. Making you feel like I couldn't be doing this evil thing to you, like you should trust me, because I'm this great guy that saved the world, right? And all the while I was thinking about how to get you in bed. How anytime you gave in at all, I'd be there, taking what you offered, teaching you how to like it, but it wasn't you offering, it was you being broken down."_

But this is about Dean's actions, not Castiel's. Why did Dean say he was thinking about Castiel?

 _"And you – when I started slowly making you do the sexual stuff, sharing a bed, kissing, when I rubbed off on you, you felt shame. Confusion. I saw it. Disgust. You threw up, threw a punch at a mirror with your bare hand. You cried, Cas."_

"You never meant to hurt me," Castiel finally says.

 _"How many abused spouses have said the same thing?"_ Dean asks.

His next words catch in Castiel's throat.

Dean's voice is quietly sure. _"You don't love me, Cas. But I do love you."_

Dial tone.

A thread of panic working its way through him, Castiel redials. It goes to voicemail.

Castiel stares at the cell for a long minute, shocked motionless. Not so much by what Dean has just confessed, but by Dean actually cutting off contact. Almost always, Dean has waited for Castiel to be done. As long as Castiel will talk to him or listen, Dean would always stay on the line. He's caught Dean running out of the shower, in the middle of an investigation, and being hunted by a ghost – but Dean's never hung up on him like that, never denied a call.

He's not entirely sure what to think of Dean's mental state. In the process of breaking down his own justifications, Dean has torn down most of his emotional barriers and supports at the same time. Castiel's always known this. It's why when he sees Dean struggling he offers some kind of support. Castiel doesn't want Dean dead by the FBI's hand or his own. He wants Dean to live.

Maybe he needs to give Dean time.

This isn't easy for Castiel, but it's not for Dean either. Just as Castiel has waited weeks at a time before contacting Dean again, maybe Dean needs the same.

Still, Castiel feels unsettled the rest of the day.

* * *

Three days later, Castiel gets into work almost late. His hair is still a little wet, and his reapplication of the bandage to his forehead is sloppy. But he's got a hot cup of coffee in his right hand, and a delicious chocolate donut in his left. He finishes the donut in the elevator, drains the coffee, and walks into the office with some perk in his step.

To his surprise, because he didn't get any info about a new case, everyone is in the conference room. Through blinds half-shut, he can see the entire team seated at the table. He pauses, then approaches cautiously and quietly.

" – he confessed, written and signed. He should be arraigned tomorrow." Hotchner's voice travels past the doorway.

Deciding not to be a creep and eavesdrop in his own workplace, Castiel peeks in. "Good morning."

Hotchner looks at him gravely. So do the others. "Come in. We've got some news."

Castiel sits down warily, nearly flinching when JJ puts a supporting hand on his shoulder, his heartbeat picking up speed. "What's happened?"

Morgan answers. "Last night Dean Winchester turned himself into the Wichita police."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** I swear I actually tried to make this chapter shorter so I would get it out sooner. So what happens? 23k! But I feel like I got a lot done. And I expect several of Castiel's decisions in this chapter to be controversial. ;)

 **Warnings (spoilers!):** Brief mention/discussion of rape and abuse. Creepiness on par with the creepier episodes of the show. Violence. Castiel/OMC mention of consensual sex.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Castiel stares at Morgan, feeling like the world is ending.

He knows disbelief is the correct reaction. The panic is not. And the relief he's supposed to feel doesn't come.

For nearly six months, he and Dean have spoken to each other on an almost weekly basis. Over that time, Dean's understanding of what exactly he did to Castiel grew like a flower. Something beautiful, at least to Castiel, because that acknowledgement was healing. Just as he had once grown used to talking to Dean, to only talking to Dean, Castiel became accustomed to having Dean there, in the background, ready to hear what Castiel had to say. It was comforting. He felt like Dean was struggling, of course, not only with being alone, but with recognizing the behaviors in himself that were so harmful to others. To Castiel. And Castiel knows how much that hurt, that it was Dean tearing himself open.

Is this a call to Castiel? For help?

Castiel doesn't think so. This is Dean making amends the only way he knows how, but giving himself up to the system that Castiel works for, even though that same system isn't totally capable of judging him.

If it had been, Castiel would have been far more likely to turn him in. Now that Dean has taken this step, he doesn't know what to do. If this is indeed what Castiel thinks it is.

Castiel speaks slowly, his hands clenched under the table. "Tell me. Exactly what happened."

Morgan is watching him, always watching him, and the others all look concerned. But Hotchner is the one to answer him, and does so with his typical calmness. "We got the call this morning. Winchester went to the police station, gave them his identity, and said he wanted to confess. He's since written out a full confession of his crimes against you, and signed it. Only against you – he hasn't confessed to any other of his crimes, though of course he'll be tried. A federal court in Kansas is arraigning him this morning, where he'll plead, but he'll likely be extradited by a state, once his guilty plea to the federal charges goes through. He hasn't asked for any consideration for pleading guilty."

Castiel suddenly feels cold and shaky. Dean wasn't caught, and this wasn't for a case. This is real. Dean was making incredible progress in understanding his own motivations in kidnapping Castiel, but this is essentially Dean giving himself a death sentence. "Did he say why?" Then, "No, I know why."

"Do you?" Morgan asks sharply.

Rather than answer immediately, Castiel leans back in his chair and forces his hands under the table to stop trembling. "I h-have to see him." He stands up, stumbling a bit. "There's no active cases that need me, I can –"

"Castiel, you're not allowed on Winchester's case, you know that," Hotchner replies, a hint of sternness finally entering his tone. Castiel can distantly see Morgan giving him a critical look, watching Castiel melt down in a way that Castiel knows, he knows is not the correct, expected reaction.

No one would expect a victim to be upset at their captor being _caught_ , after all.

"There is no case with me once Dean pleads guilty," Castiel snaps, too unsettled to pretend expected behavior. He still stands, because if he's standing it's easier to make himself appear strong.

"And why did he?" Morgan asks, yet again. No accusation in the tone.

"He didn't want to put me through a trial," Castiel finally says, which is not a direct answer. He takes a step away from the table, from his friends. He doesn't doubt the truth of his words, though. Making Castiel testify to the details of his captivity would be a re-victimization, and even Dean would know that. Of course, the entire act of turning himself into the police and putting himself in prison is an attempt on Dean's to make amends in a more concrete way than with the words 'I'm sorry.' Castiel doesn't even know what he thinks about that – he told Dean, and it was the truth, that he didn't want Dean dead, and Dean is putting himself at risk by doing this.

He pushes a hand through his hair, breathing deeply before speaking. "Hotch, I need to do this. And once he's sentenced, there's nothing to stop me from seeing him as a private citizen."

It's an ultimatum. Either Hotchner agrees to let Castiel see Dean now, or Castiel will simply do it later, without any supervision.

Hotchner stares at him, displeased. Probably on a number of levels, starting with the insubordination, with his concern for Castiel's mental state somewhere in the middle. Having an FBI agent, particularly the victim in question, having a private meeting with a serial killer would be questionable behavior, both on Castiel's part and the team's. It's unlikely Hotchner would be able to stop him, though, without directly and formally ordering him not to, and that's unlikely to be a tack Hotchner would take.

"I can take him," Morgan says to Hotchner.

"Castiel, are you sure this is a good idea?" JJ asks. She's sitting next to him, and he has to look over to see her giving him a concerned look. "You might not get what you think you will."

Castiel weighs his words carefully. "I can't guarantee it's a good idea, but it's still something I need to do."

"If the guilty plea goes through, I'll give you both a few of days of leave," Hotchner says at last. "If we get an active case, though, you will need to drop that and be at work."

Castiel nods immediately. "I understand." He doesn't ask to see Dean's confession, though he's curious. Seeing Dean is one thing, but police files aren't opened to victims normally. But it must have matched everything in Castiel's file, for it to be accepted this quickly. Though it's possible the federal prosecutor wants to get Dean's plea through before Dean changes his mind.

"Do you need to take the day off?" Rossi asks, interrupting for the first time.

Good question. "No, I'd rather keep busy." Castiel pauses awkwardly, purposefully not meeting anyone's eyes. "I'm sorry this whole thing is still taking the entire team's time."

Reid looks at him sadly. "Don't say that. You know we're here for you."

Castiel tries to smile. His earlier panic at Dean's actions is calming with having a plan of action, even if it's not one that's particularly helpful to solving Castiel's overall problem. He edges towards the door. "We should get back to work."

He doesn't miss Morgan and Hotchner exchanging a meaningful look, but that doesn't stop him from fleeing.

* * *

Castiel knocks on Stephen's door.

Stephen answers, looking – well, like someone had knocked on his door at two in the morning. He's barely dressed, with just a pair of boxers on, and he's squinting at Castiel like he's as bright as the sun. He probably is. Castiel knows there's a light in the hallway. "Castiel? What's wrong?"

"Dean turned himself in," Castiel says, and then lunges forward and kisses Stephen.

Stephen flails for a moment, then gives into the kiss for a few seconds before breaking away. "Castiel."

Rather than acknowledge the question in that, Castiel runs his hands down Stephen's bare chest, so entirely different from Dean's. Stephen grabs his hands, and says, "Stop."

Castiel stops.

"Come in," Stephen says gently. "Are you drunk?"

"No. I wish I was."

Stephen invites him in, and Castiel follows him, still feeling numb. He must look like a mess. He went home first, only to find himself staring at a now useless cell phone with something like terror swirling in his gut.

They resettle on the couch, Stephen rubbing his eyes tiredly, but he mostly looks worried. Castiel is twitchy. "You're upset. About Dean being captured."

Castiel flinches.

"I'd have to be blind not to see that," Stephen continues. "I'm not judging you, but I have to admit I don't understand. What's going on?"

Castiel looks at him helplessly. He can't explain. How can he? So much of what Dean Winchester is remains hidden, unknown. Not to Castiel, of course, but to the rest of the world. He can't tell Stephen that Dean is innocent of his other crimes, even if he's guilty of the ones against Castiel, and he certainly can't admit he's been talking to Dean for six months. Stephen isn't the BAU, but it would still be dangerous. As dangerous as letting Dean's location remain unknown and then talking to him on the phone.

Castiel suddenly laughs. It's hysterical, but once he starts, he can't stop. "Can you fuck me? I don't want to think."

"Sex as distraction –" Stephen begins, but Castiel loses the rest of it.

He did this with Dean, too. When he would use the blinding orgasms that Dean could give him to drown out all the doubts and fears, all the whispers of escape and all the pain. It was part coping mechanism, part pleasure, but tainted because even when he felt so clearly and deeply how much Dean loved him, there was the memory of telling Dean that he had to choose to be happy because the other path was self destruction. By giving up, giving himself up. And yet. And yet. That love was as real as anything Castiel has ever felt, no matter how many papers and psychological studies tell him otherwise.

Dean surrendered himself to Castiel by doing this. Completely.

He can't comprehend it. It's so unlike every other interaction in which Dean has tried to remain in control, has been in control, that it's not simply a matter of Castiel reacting, it's a matter of Castiel choosing. And Castiel has no idea what to fucking do.

Rather than passively wait for Castiel to make a decision as he'd promised, Dean made a choice that will likely set in motion his death. It's surrender not just to Castiel, he realizes, but to the criminal justice system that Castiel works for. Could this be a manipulation?

No. Dean's last phone call was too emotional, too rough for it to be a lie.

What is Castiel supposed to do?

He's clenching his hair in his hands, knees brought up and rocking back and forth.

"- tiel! Oh, fuck, I need, where's your cell phone? I need to call someone, someone who knows what to do –"

"No!" Castiel suddenly shouts, lunging forward again, this time to knock his cell phone out of Stephen's hands. "I don't want to be locked up."

Stephen freezes.

"They promised," Castiel says nonsensically.

Stephen inches forward, away from the phone and towards Castiel. He places one hand on Castiel's knee. "They wouldn't lock you up," he says, clearly trying not to startle Castiel further.

Castiel meets Stephen's gray, frightened eyes. It's that fear that makes Castiel's wildly spinning mind start to slow. "Please. Don't betray me like that. I'll calm down."

"Okay. Okay. Can I touch you?"

Castiel nods.

Stephen puts his arms around Castiel in a very careful away, letting Castiel's arms lay on top of his, giving Castiel control.

"I'm sorry," Castiel whispers.

"Tell me what you need," Stephen says, worried.

Castiel struggles to get his floundering mind working. Stephen isn't a therapist. He isn't Dean, used to seeing someone fucked up. He's a normal guy. He needs some guidance. "Just let me," he swallows, "let me calm down."

They kneel on the living room floor for a time. Castiel doesn't know how long it takes, but he does finally come down from his high of panic. He shifts out of Stephen's arms, who is looking at Castiel with a bit of his own panic.

"You with me?" Stephen asks.

"Yes. I'm sorry." He meets Stephen's eyes. "Can we go to bed? To sleep?"

"Some TV?" Stephen suggests. "My heart is still going a million miles an hour."

Castiel nods silently. Stephen helps him take off his shoes and socks and his dress shirt, but leaves the rest as is. They climb into bed and Stephen turns on the TV in the bedroom, low enough to be white noise.

To his surprise the next morning, Castiel falls asleep before Stephen even turns off the light. He sneaks out before Stephen wakes, with only a note: _I'm fine. I'll be at work. I'm sorry._

* * *

Instead of doing what he should do, and play the part – slightly shaken, unsettled, with brief moments of relief and happiness – Castiel chooses to be completely normal at work. At least it's a role he knows well. So he comes in, visits Penelope, teases her and gives her one of her favorite donuts, and then sits at his desk and sees what's in his inbox.

Three cases he was consulting on, as a member of the BAU, have district attorneys with questions. Two are in pre-trial, and one is in the middle of a trial with an unexpected development of the defendant choosing to testify, thereby opening himself up to a cross-examination. He's going for an insanity plea. Castiel spends the morning refamiliarizing himself with the case and then emailing a forensic psychologist for some advice. The defendant isn't insane – he was a hired killer who managed to live a relatively normal life except for his weekend activities. It's the sort Castiel knew well in the department he started out in, organized crime, but he wants to check a few details before giving the attorney an attack strategy.

"Castiel?"

He barely manages not to jump, and looks up. "Yes?"

Morgan nods at the screen. "What are you up to?"

"The Pierson case that we consulted on," Castiel says. It was actually one they'd helped with – from a distance – before Castiel's kidnapping. "The DA needs some advice. Something up?"

"I should be asking you that question."

"I'm okay," Castiel says. "Just – I'd prefer to keep busy. I'd rather not think about other trials."

Morgan smiles at him and leaves him alone.

Castiel leaves at nine. He doesn't bother to avoid what he needs to do and goes to Stephen's apartment first. He knocks at the door, wondering if Stephen's even home.

The door opens. Stephen eyes him, but silently steps aside.

"I'm sorry for freaking out on you like that," Castiel says.

"I'm the only person you know who isn't going to psychoanalyze you, aren't I?" Stephen asks, sitting on the couch.

Surprisingly aware. "I think I'm a little sick of being analyzed," Castiel admits. Rather than sit next to Stephen, because somehow he feels he doesn't deserve that, he takes the armchair.

"You're not a puzzle for me to figure out, but to me, this kind of does fall under not keeping important things from me."

Castiel swallows. "Being conflicted about Dean's imprisonment would affect my job. I can't show that to anyone else but you."

"But why are you? He hurt you so badly, and I don't need to be a psychiatrist to see that."

Castiel hesitates. What can he say? That he fears for Dean's life? Why would he? Even beyond the supernatural threat, Castiel really shouldn't care. But he does. "I still care about him."

Morgan would have seen the evasion, but Stephen asks, "But why do you? I don't get it. I'm not trying to interrogate you, I just don't understand."

"I'm probably the only person in the world left who knows the sides of Dean that are good. And I'm sure you're thinking, what good? But …" Castiel falters. "I lived with him for a year and a half."

Stephen hesitates this time. "You rarely talk about that."

Very soft, Castiel says, "It wasn't all bad."

"You have nightmares."

"Well, it wasn't all good, either," Castiel says wryly.

Stephen smiles at him. "That sounds more like you. Come here?"

Castiel gets up and sits next to him. To his surprise, Stephen gives him a long kiss. "Stay the night?"

"Okay."

* * *

Alone in his apartment, Castiel thinks about Dean.

For all of his apologies, Dean never once asked for forgiveness.

* * *

No new case arrives.

Three days after Dean's guilty plea, while the judge considers the evidence and sentencing, Morgan says goodbye to his girlfriend and picks Castiel up at his apartment for them both to fly to Kansas.

After all this time, it's weird to fly in a commercial airplane. Castiel supposes he's been spoiled. There's familiarity, though, in Morgan seated next to him, giving him steady, watchful looks. In a weird way, Castiel's gotten used to Morgan's unusual regard. The others have mostly treated Castiel normally, but perhaps because he was more involved in Castiel's recovery, Morgan really doesn't. He's much more aware of Castiel's emotional state, and he catches all the little mistakes Castiel makes. The inconsistencies. Castiel should probably be wary of Morgan coming with him to see Dean, but he can't wait.

Just the thought of waiting makes him feel queasy. Makes him wonder if he'll see Dean before something happens to him, before Dean's past catches up with him in a violent or deadly way. So far, he's heard nothing. Dean's been transferred to a local prison, while he waits for the sentencing that will put him in federal, at least until a state manages to extradite him and try him for something else.

He thinks about praying to Anna. But he doesn't do it.

That sense that he's about to fall into a void is still there, though he hasn't done it since he freaked out on Stephen.

"What do you intend to say to him?" Morgan asks, finally putting down the newspaper he was reading in order to give Castiel some degree of privacy while he freaks out about seeing Dean.

"Ask him why he turned himself in," Castiel says.

"You said you knew why."

"I think I do," Castiel admits, "but I want to hear it from him."

"It doesn't fit his psychology to turn himself in," Morgan says contemplatively. "You were his only set of crimes that he ever admitted to, the rest were bound up in psychosis and delusional thinking, but he thinks he's out saving the world, one dead body at a time. As much as he was in denial about you, it seems difficult to believe he'd give that up. Not when it dominated his life for so long."

Castiel doesn't answer for a long moment. "You mean that Dean's drive to commit his crimes never stopped, not even while he had me. So why would he give up that central urge now?"

Morgan nods.

Castiel knows why, of course. Dean didn't commit those other crimes, though of course calling Dean's lifestyle of hunting a central urge isn't entirely inaccurate. Dean's first impulse wasn't to turn himself in, not even when Castiel confronted him and accused him of rape to his face. Does Dean's guilt over Castiel override his desire to do right, by hunting? "That's a good question."

"I'm glad to see you thinking about him objectively."

"You mean like a profiler?" Castiel says wryly. "Understanding Dean's motivations kept me alive."

"You said he would never kill you –"

"I didn't mean in that respect. Knowing his mind made it easier to cope with him." Castiel sighs. "Dean's complicated. A lot more than he seems."

Morgan smiles wryly. "Well, I wouldn't say you're wrong about that. Eighty percent of his case still makes no sense, even with knowing some of his crimes were vigilante acts."

"You'll be there, right? Do you – do you intend on asking him anything?"

Morgan shakes his head. "No. I think a forensic psychologist should examine him, for lots of reasons, but you know our job ends with convictions and sentencing recommendations."

Castiel accepts that. It makes sense.

Morgan asks quietly, "Do you still love him?"

Castiel looks away, remembering his drunken confession. "I don't know."

* * *

Dean is still in a local prison, waiting to be transferred to a federal high security prison. This one is full of right angles and high, straight up walls. The double barbed wire fence is familiar, as are the usual precautions – an electronic security system, and guard towers. Since entering the BAU, Castiel's been in and out of prisons like this several times, either assisting in the prosecution of a case or talking to a prisoner about another. When he worked in Narcotics as a police officer, a position that didn't last very long, it seemed like he was in a jail on a weekly basis. He's never been in one for personal reasons, only on the job. He never had reason to have any kind of relationship with someone in prison.

Castiel had called Dean's bunker a prison, more than once, but he knows it was a comfortable one, with an invisible barrier instead of barbed wire. That didn't make it better, necessarily, but it's very different.

Both he and Morgan have to give up their weapons to get in, of course, and they're searched. It's a medium security prison, though Dean will undoubtedly be transferred to a high security one ultimately. Morgan watches him closely, probably to see if Castiel is in danger of breaking down. Before Dean, he never would have, but Castiel can't say he's wrong for being worried now. Especially after completely freaking out in front of Stephen.

"We've already got him set up," the guard tells Castiel, looking bored but fairly alert. "He's in a room, chained to a table. Do you want one of us to be present?"

Castiel speaks before Morgan can. "No, we'll be fine."

The guard accepts that. "This way."

"Has he been any trouble?" Morgan asks, while they walk down featureless hallways.

"Nope. He barely speaks. We put him in solitary, like you recommended, but he's been totally cooperative."

The guard stops at a heavy metal door that looks just like all the others. "Here we are. Give a shout or a bang, I'll be in there right away, but he shouldn't be able to move far."

Castiel opens the door. A guard present in the room already steps out, giving Morgan and Castiel a nod.

Castiel hesitates in the doorway, staring down, then takes a deep breath and three large steps in before raising his eyes.

Dean sits there, his hands folded in front of him. His wrists are cuffed together, and chained to a bolt in the table. He's slumped, looking down, and his shoulders look sharper. Thinner. As Castiel's gaze drifts from his shoulders to his arms, to his body, he sees that Dean is actually a lot slimmer. He still has a lot of the muscle that Castiel's so familiar with, but it's been made hard, losing all the softness of Dean's love of cheeseburgers brought. This is not a man who sleeps well at night.

It makes Castiel's heart hurt.

Then Dean looks up. The heavy look of depression sits on his face, an echo to what was once on Castiel's. But when he sees Castiel standing there, three feet in, the door closing behind him with Morgan at his back, he blinks and straightens. His mouth opens slightly, with shock or hope, Castiel can't tell.

"Cas." Soft. Simple.

Castiel swallows past a dry throat, and goes to the other chair, opposite Dean. Dean's eyes track his movement as he pulls out the metal chair and sits.

"I wasn't sure you would come," Dean says quietly.

"Of course I would," Castiel says, because for him, there was never any doubt. He hears Morgan shift, wonders if Morgan is thinking that Dean planned all this to get at Castiel. "Dean … why? Why did you do this?"

Dean's green eyes are intense against his pale skin. There's something oddly pleading in his eyes, a plea that has no expectation of being granted, but those aren't the words that come out. "It was the right thing to do." He looks away. "Don't you think it was time I did the right thing?"

 _But your life_ , Castiel wants to say. _Your safety. Your purpose. Hunting._ Dean is more than his crimes, even to his victim. But he can't say that; he's not sure Dean deserves that. So he watches the emotions play across Dean's face, so much easier to read than he remembers Dean being. Guilt, depression, fear, but also a weird kind of certainty.

Without meeting Castiel's eyes, Dean adds brokenly, "I love you."

"Is that why?"

Dean frowns a little, shrugs a little. "Not all of it. My morality's been fucked to hell. This – this is your world, Cas."

All of Dean's crimes against Castiel fell squarely under the law that Castiel serves. The others? Dean walking away from consequences when there were no good options, no good judges, and no good way out makes sense. There's no court in the world that could judge Dean's actions during the apocalypse, or after. But this – this _is_ Castiel's world. "Dean …"

Dean tries to bring up his hands, the chains clanking as he can't move more than a few inches. "For what it matters, for what I want matters –" and he stops. He leans forward, and whispers three words.

 _Don't ask her._

Castiel's heart breaks.

"I deserve to be here," Dean says, with all the surety that he never quite had when he would tell Castiel he couldn't let him go.

On impulse, Castiel reaches out across that cold, metal table, and takes Dean's hands in his. The metal links are freezing against his skin. Dean goes still, then grasps Castiel's hands in return with a desperate sound. There's the shuffling sound of Morgan moving, but he doesn't intervene, and Castiel is grateful. He needs this. Dean's hands, warm in his, rough calluses the most familiar touch.

As Castiel speaks, he knows the words are true: "I forgive you."

Dean stares at him for a long second, then hunches over with a cry, pressing his forehead to their joined hands. He weeps, warm tears sliding over Castiel's hands.

Castiel hates what Dean did, what Dean did to him, but he doesn't hate Dean, even if he should. But it's a relief, to let that go in safety. Dean made himself safe for Castiel to forgive, though Castiel is certain that wasn't the point. If it had been, Dean's surrender would have been worthless. He lets Dean weep over his hands as he feels tears slip down his face, pain matched with pain. Castiel has cut himself open so many times since his escape, letting the poison pour out. He feels like this will be the final time.

But at the same time, forgiveness does not mean forgetting. And it doesn't mean no consequences.

Dean turned himself in and plead guilty to thirty-three counts of sexual assault, four of battery, including one with a deadly weapon, two of unlawful sexual contact and one count of first degree kidnapping.

And, on some level, Castiel has to respect Dean's desire to be judged. For the state of his soul, if nothing else.

Castiel will respect Dean's request. He won't ask Anna to save Dean from prison, even if it means Dean's death.

Dean's cries slow, though he doesn't let go of Castiel's hands. He looks up, tired eyes meeting Castiel's. "Maybe in the next life," Dean says, finally releasing him, withdrawing in every way, "I'll see you again."

"I think you will," Castiel replies softly.

Dean's smile is painfully glad. "Goodbye, Cas."

The fact that it's Dean who speaks those words says everything about how Dean's mindset has changed. Castiel nods slowly, and rises to shaky legs. Dean doesn't look away, not once, like he's memorizing how Castiel looks in this moment. Castiel breaks their gaze first, finding Morgan leaning against the wall. There's a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, but it fades into sympathy.

Morgan puts his hand on Castiel's shoulder, and leads him out of the room.

Castiel wipes his eyes and keeps it together until they're out of the prison. It's only when he gets into the rental car's passenger seat that it really hits him.

His right hand clenches the car door while his left is braced in front of him, like the car is about to crash. He's panting and sweating. It's not quite a panic attack, but it's close.

And then it ends.

A weird peace settles over Castiel. They're still in the prison's visitor parking lot, but Castiel doesn't see Dean in it. Castiel's part in this is over. He doesn't know how long Dean will live in prison, if he took any precautions – he knows Dean has the anti-possession tattoo, he could have gotten others, like Castiel's own – but ultimately, Dean has made this choice, not just for himself, but for Castiel's sake as well. It's freedom.

Castiel has to take it.

Morgan's hand settles on his shoulder. "Castiel. It's over."

Yes. Yes, it is.

* * *

Castiel is the one to suggest dinner with Stephen and his friends at the BAU. Stephen is thrilled, of course, just as much as he was when Castiel finally told him where he lived. It's a sign of trust, and really one that's been sorely missed on both sides. Castiel's friends were tolerant of his hiding Stephen, but it's fair to say that at least some of them were hurt after six months of a relationship went by without them having even met the man.

Balthazar's gotten more insistent, too, but Castiel will deal with him another weekend.

The restaurant is dimly lit, but fortunately there's only six of them here. Morgan and his girlfriend Savannah are opposite Castiel and Stephen, and Penelope and Reid round out the group.

"So how did you meet?" Reid asks.

"In a gay bar," Stephen answers honestly.

Castiel blushes. He's glad it's dark. "Yes, for some reason he picked the only guy in the place who looked depressed and alone."

"Actually," Stephen says with a smile, "I thought you were pissed about the day you'd had, given how you were glaring at your glass."

"And angry men turn you on?" Castiel teases.

Penelope points at Castiel. "You are cute." She points at Stephen. "So are you."

They all burst out laughing.

Conversation spins to other topics after that. Reid ends up commanding most of Stephen's attention by being, of course, up to date on new statistical methods used in investment banking. Stephen's clearly not expecting Reid to keep up with him on the topic – Castiel certainly doesn't – but Stephen's practically taking notes on the few things that Reid knew about that he didn't (largely the newer stuff that's less proven to be useful in the actual working world). Castiel gets to know Savannah better, and hears interesting stories from her job as a nurse, and the various colorful people she meets. Penelope spends a lot of the night teasing Morgan for this and that.

Stephen passes all tests, though by the end of the dinner he's probably too drunk to notice.

Castiel, who chose not to drink, drives him home. He has Stephen's arms slung over his shoulders up the elevators and down the hallway, then has to dig around in Stephen's pocket – "Hey there," Stephen says, before Castiel is able to drag the keys out.

He puts Stephen to bed, and wakes him in the morning with his mouth instead of his hands.

He feels light.

* * *

Ironically, it's a case in Wyoming that brings Castiel back to reality, three months later.

He's in the morgue with Reid. There's a body on the table, and another two like him in drawers. The medical examiner, who was flown in from Cheyenne, is discussing the physical evidence found. Local law enforcement called the BAU after the second victim showed up. This last victim was found like all the others, nearly drained of blood, with vicious 'dog-like' bite marks on his neck. No one else would think vampire; the idea of two fangs is too common to the vampire mythos, and Castiel's the only one in the BAU or the local police force who would know otherwise. Real vampires have multiple teeth, each sharp as a needle.

"Definitely not human teeth," the medical examiner says. "Though you can see there was a biting motion, like the victim was being gnawed on."

"But the shape of the mouth suggests human," Reid says.

Castiel looks at the gaping wound, feeling sick and trying not to show it. It's not the sight of a human's torn body that makes him feel that way, but the fact that the supernatural has finally come to the BAU, just like Castiel has so desperately been trying not to anticipate.

"Is it possible that the unsub could have sharpened his teeth, or was wearing some kind of denture?" Reid asks.

"The number of teeth doesn't line up with human," the medical examiner says. "So I'd say a denture. Though he'd have to have a lot of jaw strength to do this."

"Castiel?"

Castiel looks up from the body, then at the medical examiner. "Can I see the other bodies?"

"They're all like this," the medical examiner points out.

"I'd appreciate it," Castiel says, and the medical examiner gives in.

Reid turns his attention to Castiel while the medical examiner gets the next body ready for viewing. "I was going to ask to see them all, but what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I've seen this before." Which isn't a lie, on any level. "I was the one who kept track of requests for help and case reviews for months. I didn't put it together before, but I've seen victims with their throats torn out like this, they were just all completely different situations and locations."

"That's a very specific way of killing someone," Reid says. "They don't show up exactly the same? I find it hard to believe we'd miss it otherwise."

"One of the cases, the victims were found in water," Castiel explains.

"So it was assumed it was fish feeding on the body," Reid finishes. "You remember anything else?"

Castiel shakes his head as the next body is rolled out. "Some. I don't have your memory. I'll get started on it as soon as we're done here."

Though Castiel half expects it, he doesn't find the masking knife wounds he remembers from the case that didn't have the bodies turn up in water. He stares at the wound and remembers Dean telling him about recent hunting cases, where large numbers of vampires would randomly turn up. It's not hard to turn someone into a vampire, though vampire numbers were nearly zero ten years ago. Castiel knows that not all vampires feed on humans – there's a few, like Benny and Lenore, that changed over time – but most aren't all that sophisticated, operating in nests with a mated pair as leaders.

On the drive back to the tiny police station (though still quite a bit larger than the population actually calls for, like most out of the way places) Castiel calls Penelope while Reid drives. He puts her on speakerphone. "Hello, Penelope."

 _"Whatchya need?"_ Penelope chirps.

"I need you to do a search for me," Castiel explains. "A nationwide one on cases with multiple victims in an area, with wounds on the neck. Like this one, but more generalized because I think the unsubs are attempting to disguise their MO."

 _"Searching,"_ Penelope says. After a long moment, she says, _"I've got forty-seven hits with two or more victims confined to an area. You want to narrow it down?"_

"No. Just send the cases to me, I'll review them. Thanks, Penelope."

 _"Anytime, sweetheart."_

Castiel hangs up. Reid looks at him curiously. "You think there's that many?"

"I don't know. I'd rather just look through them to make sure."

By the time they return to the station, the files are waiting on Castiel's laptop. He sends Reid a copy, and they get to work.

Reid is a faster reader and won't miss any details, but Castiel has the benefit of having a good idea who is actually committing these crimes, while Reid will, of course, be stuck on an entirely human unsub. Nearly a year of helping Dean find long-term hunts means that Castiel's a lot more attuned to looking for the supernatural than he is anything else. Not seeing the supernatural around every corner actually took effort on Castiel's part, and reminding himself repeatedly that before Dean, most of their solved cases made a lot of sense, even in the light of the real nature of the world.

He finds fourteen cases with two or more victims that would fit a vampire unsub. Most bodies were found in scenarios where blood loss is to be expected, which is why Castiel didn't connect it before. In water, in the wild, or the bodies were too desiccated to tell. Only in three of the cases was the blood loss specifically noticed in the context of the motivation of the crime, and two were disguised with knife marks to the vampire bites, shredding the victims' skin.

The question is what he can do about it. The BAU's resources will take him far enough to figure out where the crimes are occurring and any other patterns with regards to choice of victim, but not who is actually committing the crimes. Castiel can hardly tell his teammates that they need to look for a vampire nest, most likely in an abandoned area of town, and hey, let's go during daylight.

"I count fourteen related cases across the entire country, over the past year," Reid says, breaking through Castiel's attempts at planning. "We've got to have a group doing this. Maybe multiple groups, since the methods used to disguise the MO vary so widely."

Castiel nods. "I agree. We need to take this to Hotch."

By luck, Morgan's there as well. Rossi and JJ are still talking to victims' families.

Castiel and Reid explain their findings, and their theory that they're dealing with multiple groups.

"The victims are drained of blood," Morgan says. "It's possible these unsubs think they're vampires, even if the rest of the methodology doesn't fit the mythology."

Castiel is surprised he caught onto that so quickly, but doesn't show it. Instead, for safety's sake, he plays devil's advocate. "The victims were also tied up for an extended period, and beaten in some cases. That suggests an overall violent mental state, not just a desire for blood."

"Given the viciousness of the neck wounds, they may have attached themselves to the older idea of vampires, where they were wild monsters with little control. Modern vampire mythology is completely different," Reid points out.

Vampires can only be killed by a beheading. Or the Colt. Not exactly FBI standard issue. But Castiel can't let them keep killing, either, when he has some idea of where they might be. "If they're traveling, they either have an outside source funding them, or they're living a fairly destitute lifestyle. This isn't exactly a big city, could we look at local abandoned buildings? Including rural ones?" Castiel asks. "Given that there were usually five victims to an area, they could still be here."

Hotchner slowly nods. "It's a shaky profile at best, but that does give us a place to start looking."

"This city isn't small enough for everyone to know everyone, but we should ask around for new groups of people to the area, too," Morgan adds. "We should still release a limited profile, give the local cops a better chance of knowing what to look for. No less than three people to a group, possibly more."

"Some of the victims disappeared in pairs," Reid agrees. "Three to five unsubs, to be sure they would be capable of overpowering any victims. The fact we haven't seen any unsuccessful attempts at taking victims supports that, too."

Castiel rubs the very faint scar on his temple. "Three to five unsubs, working together under the delusion they're vampires. Likely destitute, moving from city to city. It's unlikely they fit in, or appear completely socially acceptable in public, considering the radical nature of their delusions."

"Somewhat criminally sophisticated," Morgan says. "It's possible they have criminal histories. They used forensic countermeasures from the very beginning, leaving no blood or skin behind on their victims. We should also look at minor crimes from recent additions to the city."

Reid grimaces. "Well, it's a start."

"Let's do it," Hotchner says.

* * *

Castiel watches from a detective's empty desk as Hotchner calls for highway patrol to give them more people – and more experienced people. Searching buildings requires manpower, and having multiple suspects increases the danger of doing so. And a city with only twenty-five thousand people isn't going to have police officers used to regularly confronting potential serial killers. The local FBI office in Wyoming is tiny. Castiel remembers that from the last time he was here, investigating yet another killer. His last field case, before …

He jerks his thoughts away. Rossi is talking to local detectives to see if there's any new troublemakers from out of town.

Morgan sits next to him, sprawling casually in another desk chair. "Sounds like a case Winchester would get on, doesn't it?"

Castiel stiffens. "Yes, I suppose so," he says as neutrally as possible. It has occurred to him that there could be hunters already looking into it, but for Morgan to bring up Dean in any context is very unusual. And disturbing. "What made you think of that?"

"The way he looked at you, in that room," Morgan says, which isn't an answer at all.

Castiel meets Morgan's eyes. "Do you have something to say?"

Morgan shakes his head. "I'm going to take three uniforms and start looking. You want to come along? We've got six hours of daylight to burn."

Literally. "Of course."

Officers Davidson, Smith and Perez accompany them to the first location. They've got a list now, using the collective knowledge of the police station about the area to find them. Castiel's impressed by this local unit – while they lack the skill that comes from lots of experience, they're smart and thorough. Once the team gave them the profile and the needs of the unsubs, in a matter of perhaps twenty minutes they had a rather exhaustive list, which was then narrowed into likelier possibilities. Rossi had no luck.

All five scan the first abandoned building, a home on the edge of town. Half the roof is gone, though, so Castiel suspects that they wouldn't use this place – that's too much risk of sunlight. It won't kill vampires, but it slows them and hurts them. There's nothing there.

It's mid afternoon by the time they get to location number two. It's a sunny day with few clouds, which Castiel supposes is auspicious. Castiel finds himself repeatedly checking the position of the sun; no long shadows, not yet. They drive up to a house and attached shop, both abandoned. Like the first one, it's out of the city proper, and in a more rural area. The next house is probably a mile away. This one is painted blue, all peeling away and leaving random spots of what was once a bright yellow.

"Shop first?" Castiel asks Morgan. "It's far enough away from the house that I think we can do them separately."

"I agree." Morgan calls back to the police station and base and lets them know what they're up to.

The shop is empty. A few rusted pieces of equipment remain, but that's it.

"You take Perez and Davidson," Morgan tells Castiel, "to the back of the house. I'll take Smith to the front." He raises his eyebrows at the uniformed officers, but they just all nod.

Weapons out and ready, radio on and bulletproof vests tight, Castiel checks the front windows while Perez checks the door, Davidson providing backup. He's got Morgan on radio, so they'll be able to communicate instantly if anything happens. The windows are mostly boarded up, so there's only slivers that Castiel can see through. It's enough to see a few empty beer bottles scattered across a dirty floor. Could be from teenagers looking for a place to smoke pot, could be their unsubs.

"Got signs of recent activity," Castiel says into his radio. "Opening the front door."

 _"Roger,"_ Officer Smith says. _"We're approaching the back."_

Castiel motions for his two officers to stay behind him; he'll go first and clear. The door, surprisingly, is unlocked, so Castiel slowly swings it open with his foot, his gun raised.

Furniture is falling apart in the front living room. He can see blankets, recently used, on a couch that is half collapsed.

Then he hears a gunshot. "Morgan!" Castiel shouts into his radio, running in the direction of the gunshot, only to hear that sound repeated four more times. "Central, we need backup at Road 27." He motions for the two police officers to follow, and they do, running when their weapons up. He makes a map of the first floor in his mind while he moves. There's the front living room, attached to the porch, and then a family room, and behind that a staircase, and behind that – where Morgan must have entered – a kitchen.

His radio is bouncing off the patrol cars in the driveway, and he hears dispatch saying into his ear, _"Backup ETA is five minutes."_

In the hallway between the living room and staircase, a moving dark figure bolts down the stairs. "FBI, don't move!" Castiel shouts, and hears Perez and Davidson saying the same thing.

The figure looks at Castiel, and bares his teeth. Vampire teeth. Male. White. Dark hair.

Davidson mutters, "Oh, God." He probably sees something, though Castiel suspects later he'll edit it out of his mind.

Then the vampire moves, almost too fast for Castiel to react – but he does, firing repeatedly while backing up. Only Davidson fires with him in the cramped space; Perez doesn't have the room to avoid hitting the two of them. The vampire doesn't stop moving, doesn't even falter.

Castiel has to change his plan of action, and quickly. He grabs a stun gun with his left hand that he took from the police armory – not standard for FBI agents to carry – and when the vampire gets close enough, teeth gleaming, he jabs it into the vampire's neck.

To his surprise, it stops the assault. The vampire stares at him in shock, grunting, then Davidson gets the idea and grabs his nightstick, and perhaps remembering the teeth he saw, he doesn't hesitate to go for the vampire's head. Perez does the same, so they're literally trying to beat the vampire into submission. Castiel wonders if a bullet to the head would take him down temporarily, but he doesn't have the room to get a good shot that wouldn't hit one of the officers. The vampire goes unsteady under the assault, and then with inhuman speed, he bolts down the hallway towards the kitchen.

Where Morgan presumably still is, fighting for his life.

 _"Need backup,"_ Morgan's voice comes shakily through the radio. _"Fuck, he won't go down."_

Castiel has a knife – the longest he's able to carry without it being suspicious – strapped to his leg. He takes it out now.

Perez stares at him. "How many times did we hit him?"

"He must be high on PCP," Castiel tells him. "Follow me. Break bones if you can, make him unable to move even if doesn't hurt."

Then he takes off after the vampire for the kitchen. He's barely in it – he can see Morgan lying on the floor, still alive, holding his weapon – and then another vampire is on him.

Months of training with Dean gave Castiel a sharper edge when it came to his close combat skills. Since so many creatures require a knife or sword to kill properly – whether blessed, made of silver, or any other requirement – Dean had Castiel train pretty extensively with those. Castiel knows that in a battle with a vampire, he's got one, maybe two chances before he's simply overpowered. So he drops his gun – which law enforcement are trained to never do – and slashes at the vampire's neck with both hands behind the swing.

The vampire screams. Castiel went for the kill, trying to make the knife go as deep and cut through as much muscle as possible. Blood and gore splatter. The vampire stumbles back, probably fearing for his life for the first time, and then he uses that same speed to burst out of the door into the shadow of the back porch. The one Castiel chased into the kitchen follows.

In normal circumstances, Castiel would immediately follow, but he doubts he can catch or stop either vampire, even in daylight.

If he was a hunter, and these were hunters, he would tell them they're going to have to take down the vampires in a different way. But he has to follow protocol, because he's not a hunter – he's an FBI agent. All he can do now is restrict causalities. He turns to Perez . "Stay here with Morgan, make sure he's fine and find Smith. Davidson, you're with me." They nod and obey.

He moves past Morgan, saying into radio as he does, "Two male suspects heading east, on foot. Novak and Davidson in pursuit. Agent down."

Morgan looks half in shock. There's a fair bit of blood on his neck, but he's still holding his gun with both hands. He shakes his head as if to clear it. "The rest of the house?"

Castiel hears Perez report, "Not cleared," and then Castiel is out of the house, Davidson on his heels.

This area is somewhat hilly, with random copses of trees. Castiel can only guess that they're either going to hide in one of those sets of trees, or they're heading somewhere specific. He follows their tracks, but their tracks are straight instead of zigzagging, and they end at a dirt road. He puts the radio chatter on a lower priority, focusing intently on their surroundings.

"We lost them," Davidson says.

"Yeah," Castiel agrees. "This is Novak, we lost the suspects at the dirt road about a mile from the property. Have Garcia check cell phone usage, I think they were picked up."

 _"10-4,"_ dispatch says.

By the time he and Davidson come back to the property, it's swarming with police and EMTs. Morgan's on a stretcher, but he's awake and coherent, speaking to JJ. Castiel doesn't go to him immediately, instead sitting heavily on a patrol car, his head swimming.

Fuck.

Castiel's been playing. Pretending that the supernatural world wasn't going to invade his. This was bound to happen – he knew this was going to happen, on some level, because he prepared for it. He never used to carry a knife on the job, just a backup piece. He has a very sharp silver knife in his apartment, and holy water stored in water bottles. But he can't bring that kind of thing to a BAU case. Of course he can't. Morgan is already suspicious of Castiel and that would get him suspended.

He needs help. He needs a hunter.

Dean's out. Besides being in prison and physically unavailable, Castiel isn't even sure it's wise to go and ask him for advice – not when all prisoner conversations are recorded and monitored. Passing a message through an attorney would be difficult, just in terms of getting an attorney he would agree, and simply asking would get him in trouble if he was caught. Could he ask Anna to get Dean out?

No, Castiel is on his own.

Presumably he could ask Anna, but that's not what Dean wants, and Castiel doesn't know what he wants. It's the practical option, but probably not the best one. There are other hunters that Castiel can find, surely. The Harvelle's bar is long gone, as is Bobby, but Dean admitted that he and Sam were disconnected from the larger hunting community by virtue of their respective screwups and roles in the apocalypse, and Castiel can't imagine hunters not creating new networking opportunities. Every community does it, even the paranoid ones.

"Hey, Castiel," Morgan calls out, sitting up now with a huge bandage on his neck.

Castiel gets up, shaking off his plans, and heads over to Morgan. "Hey. You okay?"

"Are you?" Morgan asks, and there's only concern in his voice. "Looked a bit out of it there."

"Crazy case," Castiel says, senses on high alert. "You saw how they wouldn't go down, right? They must've been high on something special."

Morgan relaxes. "Possibly. Though I could have sworn I fired point blank into his heart. Can't keep moving if your heart stops beating, no matter how high you are."

Castiel bets he did. Morgan's a good shot. "Or they body armor. We'll find out when we catch them, I suppose."

"That was quite the move with your ankle knife. Is body armor why you went for his neck?"

It's as good an explanation as any. "Yes. I and Davidson fired on a suspect on our way to you, and that didn't have much of an effect either."

Morgan nods, closing his eyes.

"You off to the hospital? I didn't see Officer Smith."

"They took Smith first," Morgan says. "He was knocked unconscious and took some heavy blows, but he'll be all right. He got gnawed on, like I did. Hell of a prosthetic, those teeth." Pause, and then, "Looks like Hotch wants to talk to you."

Castiel places a hand on Morgan's shoulder. "I'll check on you later, okay?"

"Yeah, man," Morgan says, "don't worry, I'll be fine."

Hotchner asks for a report. Castiel gives him one, telling him what he told Morgan in order to explain the vampires weird abilities and behavior. The explanations are pretty classic in terms of law enforcement explaining the unexplainable. Given that Morgan saw what Castiel did, Castiel doesn't think he'll receive any extra attention for his report. Hotchner gives him a verbal reprimand for not following protocol, along with an admission that the situation was unusual. Then it's dropped.

Once Castiel is done, Hotchner tells him, "We've got patrols looking for the car that picked up our suspects. You were right; they used cells to call for help, but the phones have been disabled. We also found two bodies upstairs, dead roughly twelve hours."

"I think they're going to run," Castiel says.

"Our job is to stop them before they do," the police chief, standing nearby, says.

After that, Castiel becomes another cog in the machine of post-crime routine and regulation. It dips into night before the area is fully secured and evidence gathered. The bodies go to the local morgue.

They don't catch the unsubs. A week later, they return home, and give out a general alert to surrounding states to look for patterns in deaths, and to call the BAU if they find them.

* * *

Castiel's in the shower when he hears a knock at the door. Whoever is waiting for him to answer must really want his attention for him to hear it two rooms away. So he very quickly gets all the shampoo out of his hair and steps out, half drying himself before getting dressed, little droplets of water falling on black t-shirt as he enters his living room. It's the weekend, and while the team doesn't usually get full weekends off, he didn't hear his phone.

He checks the peephole.

It's Morgan. Not dressed like he's about to head into work, either. He's got a messenger bag over one shoulder.

Feeling uneasy, Castiel unlocks the door and opens it. "Hey, Morgan," he says, and steps to the side to let Morgan in.

Morgan eyes him for a long moment, and sets the bag on the floor.

"Something wrong?" Castiel asks.

In answer, Morgan silently goes to the far wall and takes the black and white photography off the wall, exposing the enochian sigils Castiel is still too paranoid to get rid of.

Castiel stops breathing. Panic is his first reaction, but he stifles it almost immediately. Morgan knew where that was; there was no guessing. Morgan's been unattended in his apartment plenty of times, so he's had the opportunity to look, but given that no one has asked him about the sigils on the walls he had assumed that the pictures had gone largely unnoticed. However, Morgan knowing this means he found it, didn't ask Castiel about it, but waited. Until now. This is only the beginning.

The beginning of Castiel's mistakes. It's an axiom of sorts in law enforcement that criminals always make mistakes eventually. The question is whether the mistakes are fatal.

"What is this?" Morgan asks, pointing at the enochian symbol.

Castiel shrugs, keeping his shoulders loose. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, since you had to hide it behind a picture. I had to spend quite a while looking these up," Morgan says, two fingers following the pattern. "I found them last time I was here. Do you know how long it took me to figure out they were supposed to be the language of the angels? Supernatural wards? Why do you have this, Castiel?"

"It makes me feel better."

Morgan looks at him pityingly. "Castiel … You know this isn't real, right?"

"You can lecture me about it when you take down the dream catcher above your bed and admit it's not real and that by having it you have a serious problem." Castiel raises an eyebrow and sits on his couch, deliberately projecting the image that he's comfortable in his own domain. "Well?"

"You've lost none of your debate team skills, I see," Morgan replies. There's no give there, though. Just a comment.

"Is that all?"

"Winchester knew you'd been hurt."

Castiel blinks, taken aback. "What?"

"Your head injury. You didn't have the bandages anymore, but the cut was still visible. He recognized it. I saw that very clearly when you walked into the room. He also checked your ankle. That leaves only two possibilities, Castiel. Either he was stalking you and knew that way, or you told him. Which was it?"

Of the possible mistakes Castiel has made, that one never even occurred to him. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that kind of accusation?"

Morgan grabs a folder from his bag. He throws it at Castiel, a few random pages spilling out across the coffee table. "Tell me those cell tower records, showing regular phone calls in this area between phones that can't be further traced, weren't you."

Penelope. She must have helped him. Castiel knew that without Charlie, his precautions wouldn't be enough, but against Penelope? Castiel's smart, but not a computer genius. But if that was as close as Penelope got to him, he's probably okay. Despite the guilty urge to look at the pot in the kitchen, he doesn't let his gaze waver from Morgan's. "So there's drug dealers in the neighborhood. I'll be sure to pass that onto the DEA."

"I'm not stupid, Castiel."

"Are you accusing me of a crime?" Castiel asks evenly. Obstruction of justice, if Morgan could prove it.

"Well, crime is an interesting question, isn't it, Castiel?" Morgan actually has the gall to sit in the armchair opposite Castiel. A flicker of fury goes through Castiel, but he represses it thoroughly, and watches Morgan carefully instead.

Morgan puts one finger to his lip, as if thinking. It's calculated. A profiler in action, interrogating a suspect, using body language to indicate just how much he knows; that he knows more than Castiel does, that he's in the superior position.

"Neither you nor the hacker you call Charlie ever mention Winchester's other crimes. Why was she so horrified by him kidnapping and hurting you, when he's outright murdered others? I'd assume she buys into his psychotic delusions, but you knew exactly how she would respond. You knew that she would be horrified by Winchester's treatment of you, but nothing else he did. You knew how she thought, Castiel, because you think the same way. Don't you?"

Fuck. He's fucked up. But Morgan can't prove anything with just the absence of Castiel talking about that. It's the sort of thing profilers catch onto, but are meaningless in court. Or in internal investigations. "I don't have to explain anything to you. How I feel about Dean is between me and my therapist, not you. Are you done?"

"No. I'm not." Morgan pulls out his phone. "This is really why I came here. I was prepared to let the rest of this go, call it the trauma of being kidnapped and held prisoner for eighteen months, but I couldn't let this go."

Castiel looks at him evenly.

"You know your visit with Winchester was recorded, and after our last case I got curious about what he whispered to you. I couldn't hear him, and the security camera's microphone didn't pick it up, so I had a friend read his lips."

Tension is thick in the room.

Morgan shows the clip. "'Don't ask her.'"

"I don't know –"

"Don't fucking lie to me, Castiel. We caught Winchester a year after your kidnapping. He got out of a federal supermax in a way the federal marshals and I still can't figure out, the only clue being a red-haired woman that still hasn't been identified. We've spent more than a year investigating this mystery with no clues. But you know who she is, don't you?"

Castiel glares at him, but doesn't speak. He doesn't know what to say.

"I was going to let go the fact that you've been talking to your kidnapper. That you're the reason he turned himself in, and that you put yourself and the entire team in danger by keeping contact with a dangerous serial killer. But now I know – I know, Castiel – that you are capable of breaking Winchester out of prison. That you know someone else who probably is out there killing, sharing in Winchester's delusions about monsters and demons, and you've done nothing."

Castiel is silent.

"Well?"

"Have you gone to Hotch?"

"Should I?"

"Answer the damn question."

"Yesterday," Morgan admits. "For your sake. I'm not trying to get you into trouble. I'm trying to save you from yourself!"

"I don't need to be saved!" Castiel stands up, not letting himself shiver.

"Yes, you do! You never recovered from captivity, did you? When you're drunk, it slips out that you still love that monster, when he's caught you're upset instead of relieved, and you've been talking to him probably since he found you on that walk. You're putting yourself in huge danger, emotionally and physically. How can I trust you? How can the team trust you, when you're still fucked up?"

Castiel flinches.

"Castiel, listen to me, I want to help you –"

"I don't need your help," Castiel snaps. "There's nothing wrong with me!"

"How about Dean's other victims? What about them?" Morgan demands.

"I've never protected Dean from being caught or criminal prosecution," Castiel lies.

Morgan stares at him. "I don't believe you."

"The fact that I haven't been suspended or fired tells me you have no evidence for any of these accusations."

"Is that an admission that such evidence exists?"

"No. I may not have gone to law school, but I've been in law enforcement for a long time, Morgan. We both have. All you have is accusations. You know that. And I'm not going to suddenly collapse under the weight of what you think you know." Castiel points at the door. "Get out."

"Don't do this to yourself."

"I could say the same."

"Is that a threat?" Morgan sounds disbelieving.

At this point, Castiel doesn't care. He just wants Morgan out. "I just want you to save yourself," he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Now get out of my apartment."

Morgan looks – disappointed. Though what the hell he thought he would get out of confronting Castiel like a suspect he doesn't know. Did he expect Castiel to break down and admit everything? He must have thought that Castiel would collapse under the pressure. He did see Castiel freak out in the car. Castiel did break down in front of Stephen, to the point that Stephen wanted to call for help. But Castiel's not weak enough to break when he knows he can't. So he stares Morgan down.

Morgan picks up the folder, his bag, and leaves without another word.

Castiel collapses onto the couch.

He doesn't know whether to feel betrayed or afraid. Both, probably. He knows that Morgan is really only doing what he sees as best, but the interference is infuriating anyway.

Morgan decided to let his meeting with Dean go until their last case. He can't forget that either. While Castiel's explanations were accepted by Hotchner and the shooting investigation – he was officially cleared a few days ago – Morgan is seeing precisely what Castiel doesn't want him to see. In Morgan's eyes, Castiel is reacting to things that aren't there. Choosing to do things that make no logical sense to a law enforcement officer. The missing pieces that fill Dean's case file are popping up into Castiel's.

What should he do?

Get rid of the phone. And the scrap of paper; he'll have to memorize the bunker coordinates. And then … and then.

Continue on as if nothing is wrong.

* * *

He goes to Stephen's.

To his surprise, Stephen doesn't answer the door. It's after eight on the weekend, so Stephen is usually home, and Castiel knows he's not out of the area for work. Puzzled, he takes out his phone and sends Stephen a text.

Castiel hears it beep through the door.

He leans against the door jam, and says loudly, "Stephen. If you're in there, I need you to answer the door and tell me you're all right, even if you slam it in my face after. Otherwise I'm breaking this door down."

After about half a minute, he hears the lock move. A moment later, Stephen answers, looking pale and haggard.

"Stephen, what happened?" Castiel demands, moving forward and taking his lover in his arms. Worry and panic flit through his mind. He's guessing this is some external thing that is upsetting Stephen, but given all that's happened recently, he can't be sure.

"My mother had a stroke," Stephen admits into Castiel's shoulder. "No idea if she'll recover." Then he begins to cry.

Castiel holds him tightly until Stephen calms. He sits with Stephen while they go online and order plane tickets to Houston. Castiel orders one for himself, though he hasn't gotten permission to go yet. Stephen's not his spouse, but it's close enough to a family emergency that he thinks he can get away with it. He doesn't let Stephen drink more than two beers before putting him to bed, telling him they'll drive to the airport together in six hours.

Once Stephen is asleep, he calls Hotchner.

 _"Castiel. Is this about Morgan?"_

"No, actually," Castiel says, sighing. "Stephen's mother just had a serious stroke. We don't know if she'll make it. I want a few days family leave so I can go with Stephen to see her."

Hotchner is silent for a few seconds, probably in surprise. _"Of course. I'll get the paperwork started, and you can sign the request when you get back."_

Castiel closes his eyes. "Thank you. I really appreciate this."

 _"Family is family,"_ Hotchner says simply.

Oddly, Castiel thinks about Dean in the same moment he does Balthazar. "I'll give you a call tomorrow to update you when I'll be back."

 _"Good luck, Castiel."_

* * *

Being the supportive one is new for Castiel.

Of course, even with Dean, who was so obsessed with caring for Castiel despite the harm he inflicted at the same time, Castiel was occasionally in the role of caregiver. When Dean was sick or injured, in particular, but also when Dean would have nightmares about hell or Sam dying. Dean was all repressed trauma, and during his captivity it was very difficult for Castiel to even attempt to unfold, especially since Castiel was so consumed with keeping his own sanity, much less worrying about Dean's. Balthazar is the opposite, shouting his feelings to the world. Castiel's never really had to guess what his brother needs.

Stephen lies somewhere in the middle.

On the plane ride to Houston, he grips Castiel's hand so tightly it starts to go numb. Castiel ends up stroking his fingers along the back of Stephen's hand until he relaxes and lets go.

This is not a man who has lived with death.

Stephen is normal. Touched by death, certainly, as most are. His uncle, who he was close to, passed a few years ago from a heart attack. His father died when he was a young child, too young to remember him. He lost several pets as a child, his first real introduction to mortality. He doesn't know the stench of a body dead for three days in the height of summer. He doesn't know what disembowelment looks like. He hasn't stared his own death in the face, a gun or a monster coming for his life.

Of course, Castiel would be just as stressed if it were Balthazar who had a stroke. He knows that. But it feels different somehow, like a reminder of the two different worlds they live in. Stephen is good and, though he would deny it, also innocent. Castiel wants to keep him that way, when the worst thing he can imagine is losing his mother to a stroke. Every member of the BAU would probably say something similar. So would a hunter.

As the plane touches down, Castiel says to him, "I'll be here for whatever you need. No matter what happens, you're going to be okay."

Stephen smiles at him gratefully.

This particular hospital is a modern wonder, which is reassuring. Stephen is full of nervous energy now, so Castiel lets him expend it by asking the front desk a ton of questions. They're directed into the main hospital, and from there they sign in as visitors and are told Shelly Bailey's room number.

Castiel keeps his arm under Stephen's as they walk down the hallway. Stephen's hand shakes when he opens the door, but the first thing they both see is a woman in her thirties, with a baby about a year old swaddled to her side, his bright eyes huge and curious. She turns, bursts into tears, and awkwardly steps forward and hugs Stephen. Castiel hangs back, waiting for when it's appropriate for him to intercede. He feels uncomfortable, because this isn't a case and it's personal. Very personal.

They hold onto each other for a long minute before breaking apart, both looking a bit teary, but also calmer.

The woman – whose name Castiel doesn't remember offhand – smiles at Castiel and offers him a hand. "Hi, I'm Tiffany, Stephen's sister."

"Hi. I'm Castiel."

She releases him, then steps to the side.

Stephen's mother lies very still in the hospital bed. She's not intubated, which is reassuring, but she's fully monitored, which means her condition isn't stable yet. Castiel remembers his parents as they were when he left at eighteen, in their late forties with very little sprinkling of gray or white hair. Shelley, on the other hand, has pure white hair, thin and wavy, and thin, papery skin. It makes Castiel wonder what his own parents look like, now.

"What's the latest news?" Stephen asks, sitting in the chair next to the bed and taking his mother's hand.

"There was a blood clot," Tiffany says, bouncing her child, who is surprisingly quiet. "They've given her medication, and I guess the latest MRI shows she won't need surgery, so that's good."

"But the fact that she had stroke in public and brought to the hospital so soon is good, right?" Stephen asks. "That's what I've read."

Tiffany nods. "That's what the doctors said. She was sedated while some brain swelling went down, but they've taken her off of it now, so she could wake up anytime." Tiffany grimaces. "But probably not that soon. Otherwise they just keep saying that she's responding to pain and the blink test, but they don't know anything else."

"So, they're going to wait until she wakes up," Stephen summarizes.

"Mostly, yes," Tiffany says wanly. "I wish I could tell you more." She takes her child out of the sling and sits on the room's other chair, setting him on her lap. "Visiting hours end at eight. Timothy is coming in about half an hour to take Nathan, and I don't know if I'll stay because I've been here so long, but you can stay as long as you like."

"We can stay while you rest," Castiel offers. "It's important you take care of yourself, too."

Tiffany smiles at him, and it's genuine for all the sadness behind it. "Thank you."

Stephen gives Castiel a tiny grateful expression. "Yeah, go. We'll be here for her."

Over the next half hour, Tiffany asks Castiel polite general questions about his life and job. Castiel knows a fair bit about her from Stephen, but of course they've never met until now. Judging from the content of her questions, she doesn't know about his kidnapping, which makes sense. Stephen would ask him before revealing that, considering how touchy Castiel is about the subject. So the conversation drifts from serial killers to Castiel's time as a uniformed police officer, and the various strange happenings you encounter on patrol. He's even able to make her laugh a few times. Stephen's heard the stories, so he mostly listens and stays focused on his mother.

Castiel goes through a much easier and shorter introduction with Timothy, Tiffany's husband, and then he and Stephen are alone.

"How are you doing?" Castiel asks softly.

"Still in shock, I guess. I mean, she's old enough I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I still am." Stephen laughs dryly, not taking his gaze from his mother.

"She's your mother, she's been in your life so long that I think it would always be a surprise."

Stephen looks up. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"Only in the sense that no one sees this kind of thing coming," Castiel says cautiously.

"I suppose so." He clears his throat. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course."

They mostly sit in silence, in vigil, until visiting hours are over, with Castiel by Stephen's side.

* * *

Two days later, Shelley wakes up and gives her a son a half-smile.

* * *

The hotel has almost become homey.

Cream walls and blue accents have become a normal background to seeing Stephen's sister and brother-in-law, and Castiel's even had the opportunity to bounce their young son on his knee. Tiffany is a little wary of Castiel, though, especially when reminded of the fact that he still carries an off-duty weapon. It's not rejection or judgment – Castiel looked closely for that – but simply that it's new to her and makes her uncomfortable, much the way it did Stephen in the beginning, though Stephen was a lot better at hiding it.

Castiel's not surprised. In his past relationships, there's always an immediate attraction to the idea of a man in a dangerous but respected field like law enforcement, but the reality of loving someone who carries a gun is often quite different.

Sometimes he thinks he catches Stephen looking at him with new eyes.

In between visiting Shelley in the hospital and spending time with Tiffany and Timothy, Castiel uses his laptop to remote in. Some case files are too sensitive for him to view remotely, but a lot of the necessary paperwork that the team has he can do for them, while spending most of his days with Stephen and his family. But in between that, he looks at bizarre cold or solved cases, on his own time. Anyone looking at his access history would probably be baffled.

He's not looking for a case.

He's looking for a hunter.

When Dean was a hunter, he most often found his cases on his own. But he also got a not-insignificant number of cases from former victims of supernatural events, who he had helped. Castiel just needs to find a likely case with a hunter, and start asking for help. Of course, anyone he talks to is going to be very reluctant to even discuss the case, much less the strange people that came to help during that strange time, but it's the best lead Castiel can think of finding.

Castiel needs help. From someone who has dealt with vampires before, but also someone outside of law enforcement period. Castiel's movements are just too closely monitored. His FBI phone's location is constantly recorded, and for him in particular going off-grid is something he would likely have to explain, especially with Morgan on his tail, suspicious that Castiel is losing his mind.

Finding a hunter willing to help a law enforcement officer off the books is probably going to be hard, but Castiel's at a loss about what else to do. He can't go with his gut instinct of going to Dean, for a lot of reasons, so this is the best remaining option.

"Castiel, you busy?"

Castiel exits out of the case with a purported 'rangy looking monster' that ended with a set of bones and ashes, and looks up at Stephen, who is standing before him and fidgeting. "Nothing I can't put aside. What's up?"

"I think we need to talk," Stephen says, sitting on the bed next to Castiel and placing his hand on Castiel's knee.

"Okay," Castiel says, stomach sinking at those words. He closes the laptop and puts it on the side table. "What about?"

"I'm taking extended family leave," Stephen tells him. "But I'm guessing you can't. And probably don't want to."

Castiel hesitates. "I'd like to spend more time with you and your family. But if I'm gone for much longer, the BAU will need to replace me, if only temporarily." He will need to make a decision one way or the other soon.

Stephen nods heavily. "I think you should go home. I'm over the worst of it now, especially now that I know Mom will be okay. She'll need at-home care, but I can afford that. You can't really afford to stay away that long from your job, can you?"

Castiel isn't entirely sure he's being direct about what he's asking. "Are you saying this long term, or for a few weeks or months?"

Stephen looks down. "I don't know. I love my job, and I can't transfer here because there isn't a local office. And Mom wouldn't want me to give that up, anyway. I'm not asking you to move. But I feel like … all my priorities are different. I hadn't even seen Nathan, you know that? My nephew. On Skype, sure, but otherwise I haven't seen him since he was born."

"Well, I'm not going to lie," Castiel begins. "I like to be active. I want to go back to work. But I also want to make this work, Stephen. If you're gone more often, I certainly understand that. Family is family."

Relief crosses Stephen's face. "Okay. That's what I needed to hear."

Castiel puts his hand over Stephen's.

* * *

Stephen's family crisis was convenient in one way, even if Castiel hates to think of Stephen suffering being a convenience. Castiel had a lot of time to figure out how to handle Morgan, and more importantly, Hotchner. Given that he had to ask for leave, he hasn't been suspended, and he's not surprised by that. Morgan's evidence would be good enough to give a profile on, but never to convict. Even if Hotchner believes Morgan completely, he can't act based on that level of information, which is circumstantial at best.

When someone lies, they get colorful. Only very good liars keep it simple. Castiel has to keep it simple.

He needs to act offended, yes. Annoyed. But not threatened by Morgan's accusations. Certainty of innocence requires little defense.

He knocks on the door of Hotchner's office.

"Come in."

Castiel enters and sits, muscles loose and relaxed, and waits.

"Thanks for seeing me," Hotchner says, putting aside whatever file he was looking at. "How is Stephen?"

"He's doing much better." Castiel smiles, because it's true. "His mother will make a partial recovery, and fortunately it didn't really effect her cognitively, just physically. Even if she can't always quite communicate it, she can still tease him about past boyfriends."

That cracks Hotchner's still face into a smile, though it fades. "I'll get to the point. Morgan made me aware that he told you what he told me."

Castiel nods. "Yes. And while I appreciate Morgan's concern, I've neither done anything illegal nor do I intend to. Dean is in prison, and the rest is –" Castiel waves a hand. "You and I both know that this job can make you paranoid."

"So you deny Morgan's allegations?"

"I categorically deny that I have done anything wrong, illegal, or dangerous to myself or others. If I've found religion, so what? That's not your concern, or Morgan's, unless you're going to also call Leslie Sivlain from finances into your office to ask if she's sane enough to work here while being a pagan." Castiel snorts.

"I'm not quite that brave," Hotchner says wryly. "All right. I won't lie and say I don't share some of Morgan's concerns, but I've seen no evidence indicating you've done anything untoward. And Dr. Katz's reports are all good. So, let me be clear: can you work normally with Morgan?"

"Of course," Castiel says, and he's not lying. "Like I said, I do appreciate that there's concern behind what he's saying, even though he's wrong. We're both professionals. It'll be fine."

"See that it is," Hotchner says, and with that last note of warning, lets it go.

* * *

After nearly forty calls, it's the 'rangy monster' case that ended with bones that gives Castiel his first lead on a hunter.

"I have a phone number," the old lady tells him reluctantly. "He said to call if anything like this ever came up again. But he told me to never give it to law enforcement, even though he said he was FBI. You're not a cop, are you, honey?"

"No," Castiel says, having lied and said he's a reporter. "Please, Mrs. Jask, I need help."

She gives him the number. Castiel writes it down, thanks her, and hangs up.

He stares at the hotel room wall for a long moment. He got a room for the night, though he'll only be here a few hours. He's not on call, and very reluctantly left his FBI phone at home. It might get him in trouble if they call and he doesn't answer, but that's why he intends to be in this cell tower area with yet another burner phone for a couple of hours at most. He doesn't want to have the same problem he had with Morgan and cell tower records.

He dials, and unsurprisingly gets a very vague voicemail. "Mr. James, I need your help. I have information about a nest of vampires, and I'm not a hunter. Mrs. Jask gave me your number. Please call me back at this number, and I'll tell you everything that I can."

* * *

Click.

 _"Who the fuck are you really?"_ 'Agent' James asks, dark and angry voice over a phone line.

Castiel's tempted to answer 'not an agent of the FBI' just for the irony, but restrains himself. "Not a reporter anymore than you're an FBI agent. But I still need help. I wasn't lying about that."

Short silence. _"Details?"_

"If you have email, I'll send you official files and my own conclusions. This isn't something law enforcement can handle. And I swear to you, this isn't a trap."

 _"Better not be, boy."_

* * *

Two days after sending the email, Castiel gets a reply.

 _Looks like a hell of a case. I'm asking some friends for help, because I'm going to need it. I'm assuming the fact you got FBI files means you're in some kind of law enforcement, and that's why you're dumping this on us professionals. I've got to ask, if we run into trouble, will we get any help from you?_

Castiel replies, _I'll do I can without being caught. Keep me apprised of where you are, and I'll make sure to warn you if the FBI is on your tail. Thanks for looking into this. I'll keep up updated on any cases that cross my desk that look like they're related. If all you can do is scare the vamps off before they take too many, it's more than we can do._

* * *

Morgan finds Castiel in the break room, eating a donut. Castiel nearly chokes when he turns around and finds Morgan there.

"Something happen in the Aldis case?" Castiel asks.

Morgan shakes his head. "Winchester was just extradited to Texas for a death penalty trial. He'll serve in a federal prison during the trial."

Castiel freezes. "He was?"

"You're not keeping track?"

Feeling stiff, Castiel shakes his head. "I haven't kept track of his case at all." He's been too afraid to, in many respects. He doesn't want to think about Dean in prison because he doesn't want to worry. He's sure he'd know if Dean was killed, but he let Dean choose to stay, and he's not going back on that. This was Dean's choice, and one Castiel respects. Must respect.

"The judge gave him two hundred and fifty one years, to be served consecutively, for what he did to you."

Castiel automatically does the math in his head. Most of that is from the thirty-three counts of rape, he's sure. The average federal sentence for rape is a little less than seven years. Twenty for the kidnapping. Feeling a little numb, he admits, "I didn't know that."

The admission relaxes Morgan. "You know I don't want to fight with you, right?"

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment. "Yes. I know."

"Then how about we stop?"

Castiel looks at him carefully. "You still think I'm obstructing justice?"

"I'm not going to stop watching you. For your own sake. But I'm not here to get you into trouble, Castiel."

Castiel nods, deciding to accept that. "Then let's be friends."

Morgan grins. "Hand me a donut?"

* * *

Three months pass. Castiel warns James off a case once, and gets a request for a file on another, which he's able to provide because he has reason to access it. Otherwise, the vampires are keeping low, and turning their murders into missing persons. James and a couple of other hunters were able to take out one nest, but they suspect there's at least three more, and they've only managed to take off a head or two of each of those.

Castiel is grateful.

James mentions Dean twice, both in the context of the case. James, unsurprisingly, figured out that Dean was working the case previously. He asks if Dean knew anything else, and Castiel neatly dodges the issue and says James can ask Dean if he has more information.

On top of that, Morgan still watches Castiel closely during their weird cases. The ones about demons and monsters. It's becoming more noticeable, and it makes Castiel twitchy.

Still, the last case ended well. Anytime they actually catch the unsub is a good case. He got a text from Stephen on the plane home, asking if they could spend some time together – Stephen was gone when Castiel had to leave suddenly for this last case, so he doesn't even know Castiel's not in town – and Castiel finds himself anxious to go and see his boyfriend. He misses him.

He knocks on the door because it feels polite, even though he has a key.

"Come in!"

Castiel enters.

Stephen smiles at him, quick and bright. He walks from the living room to the kitchen, heading for the home phone. "Oh hey, I was about to order – what happened? You're limping!"

Castiel waves a hand in dismissal. "Oh, it's nothing. I barely even sprained it."

"But how did you get it?" Stephen asks, bolting around the coffee table and keeping his hand under Castiel's elbow for the ten foot walk to the couch.

"A suspect knocked me over attempting to escape," Castiel says and collapses on the couch that he's become so comfortable with. He takes off his shoe and rubs his ankle. He has a support sock on it for now. He relaxes back. "Don't worry, Morgan took him out."

"Killed him?" Stephen asks, horrified.

"No, stomach tackle. He's fine. They're both fine. Stephen, are you okay?"

Stephen takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Why don't I get you some ice for your ankle? Shoes and socks off."

Castiel complies. Stephen orders pizza, getting a ton of olives on Castiel's half. He then joins him on the couch, gently encouraging him to lay back in Stephen's arms. Castiel's head lies on Stephen's chest, with Stephen's arm holding him close. They stay that way for a while. Castiel lets tension and work stress drain out of him, purposefully focusing on just feeling Stephen's arms around him, on breathing in and out.

"So how was your trip?" Castiel asks.

"Very Hawaii."

"I've never had a convention in Hawaii."

"Have you ever been to Hawaii?" Stephen asks, curious.

Castiel has to think about it. "No. Though last count, I've been to twenty-two different states. The rest of the team has been to all of them, though, the ones who have been BAU for ten years."

Stephen laughs. "That's a hell of a lot of traveling. You like moving around so much?"

Castiel does an aborted shrug, and then shifts so he can look up and give Stephen a teasing smile. "I moved a lot before the BAU, too, but I had to move all my stuff with me then. I hated that, I can tell you."

"I like to see the world, but always have a home to come to," Stephen says, softer, more contemplative.

There's a knock at the door.

"I'll get it, stay put," Stephen orders.

The couch is a lot colder than Stephen. But the pizza smells good. Castiel devours two slices before he can focus enough to see that Stephen's still tense, sitting next to him with his back straight, while Castiel slouches against the arm of the couch. "You still look freaked."

"I didn't know. I guess I usually prepare myself for you being hurt." Stephen smiles painfully, putting his slice of pizza down. "I don't like seeing you hurt."

Castiel hesitates. "It's a risk of the job." One of the things that made Castiel feel comfortable being with Stephen was that understanding of work being important.

"I know." Stephen leans into Castiel. "Do I ever get used to it?"

"From what I hear, you learn to live with it."

"You never dated someone in your field?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. Just never worked out that way." Except Dean, he supposes. Though that wasn't entirely a choice on his part. "Plus, there's so many policies about dating coworkers in law enforcement. It was safer to just not make the attempt. And there were a lot of men, and well … I didn't know my interests could lean that way at the time."

Stephen laughs a little. "Are all law enforcement jobs so … physical?"

"I'm a field agent, and I'm trained as one. Other departments, I might go into the field less – sometimes a lot less – but that's not what I was trained to do. I can do paperwork, but it's not my passion." Castiel pauses, weighing potential words carefully. "Stephen, this is about more than a sprained ankle. And while I – I care about you a lot, I don't want to change jobs."

Stephen looks at him, gray eyes sad. "And that's non-negotiable?"

Castiel doesn't want to sit behind a desk. Not yet. Not until he's old and gray, really. "Yes."

"If you hadn't been with the BAU, you never would have been kidnapped –"

"Don't," Castiel snaps, sitting up and anger surging. "Don't even go there."

There's a long silence while Stephen stares at his hands. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to blame you for that."

Castiel exhales, trying to let his fury go. That's not even what he's angry about. "This is my life. I'm not going to leave it." Dean asked for that, though in a different way. But if Castiel leaves the BAU, it needs to be his choice. Either by choices he makes by trying to help hunters and hunt himself, or by simply choosing to leave, but _his_ , nonetheless. If he's fired, he'll accept that as a consequence. But having another lover ask him to give up his purpose in life isn't something he's going to do.

It's almost like an epiphany.

Dean asked with force, Stephen asked with emotion. And Castiel can say no.

Stephen looks up at him. "Okay."

* * *

Being available for phone calls tends to be hard for Castiel, when it comes to the hunter who is helping him. Or the hunter he's helping. Castiel isn't quite sure which way it's going at this point. Emails are safer. He can use the darkweb with a lot more security than a cell phone. But James requested he talk to Castiel directly, and since he's the guy hunting the vampires, Castiel can't really say no.

So he drives to a no-name motel and sits down on a bed he'd otherwise not touch. The green walls give him the creeps, so he focuses on inserting the battery into his phone, and then calls.

 _"Hello?"_

"James. This is your law enforcement friend. What's going on?"

 _"I found out some interesting stuff,"_ James says. _"Our vampire nests aren't random upsurges. There's some kind of leader. Not an Alpha, since as far as I know, the Winchesters got the vampire Alpha. But someone charismatic enough to get around fifty vamps doing his bidding. I've got about five other hunters helping me make a trap."_

"How can I help?" Castiel asks.

 _"I want your FBI buds to put out warnings or notices or whatever it is you guys do to talk to local cops, so we can put pressure on the vamps in specific areas. If you do that, I think we can drive them to their leader."_

Castiel hesitates. "I'll do my best." He'll have to justify it to Hotchner somehow, but considering how the case has floundered, Hotchner will probably let him do something more on a gut-instinct basis.

 _"You gonna talk to your boss? SSA Hotchner, isn't it?"_

Castiel freezes. "What?"

 _"You're Castiel Novak."_

Castiel doesn't answer.

 _"Well, I am a hunter, you know. Fucked up is what we deal with. He went to prison for what he did to you."_

"How did you figure that out?" Castiel asks, deciding not to deny it.

 _"Winchester's confession and subsequent six month stay in prison has been talked about, by people like us. You're law enforcement. Then you get cagey when I mention him?"_ Castiel can almost hear the shrug. _"Eighteen months, of course you'd know the truth."_

"And what's your point?" Castiel asks, wondering if he's being threatened. He doesn't know whether to feel tired or offended about that.

 _"No point. Just gives me a better idea of what you can do for us."_

"There are limits."

 _"Yeah, I know. Forcing someone into this life … no. I don't do that. I'm not lookin' to get you fired or arrested. Be careful."_ He pauses. _"Most of us don't leave this hunting gig alive, you know."_

Castiel's throat tightens, thinking about Dean, so vulnerable in prison despite all the good he's done. And the fact that he was forced into this world, with knowledge of it. Life was easier when he was ignorant, though he can't say that's fair. "I know."

 _"I'll email when I know more."_ James hangs up.

Castiel breathes and stares at the phone for a good fifteen minutes before forcing himself to drive back to his apartment, back to his FBI phone, back to normal life.

* * *

Castiel wakes up naked and warm.

It's still dark. He and Stephen fell into bed around seven, and were passed out by eight. Stephen's still asleep – he's curled up around Castiel, one of his legs settled between Castiel's and his arm slung over Castiel's waist. Castiel can feel his hot breath at the back of his neck. He shifts a little and Stephen's arm tightens. When Castiel tries to untangle himself, Stephen murmurs something and holds on.

"I have to piss," Castiel says, struggling a little harder.

Stephen starts, and then lets him go.

Castiel gets up and pads to the bathroom, flipping on the light. He winces, but finds the toilet. When he returns, Stephen's sitting up, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

The clock on Castiel's side table says five AM. "Five in the morning," Castiel tells him. "You want to go back to sleep?"

"Breakfast?"

"Would you like eggs? My fridge is stocked for once," Castiel admits. His eating habits have not improved since the half-rotted, half random takeout containers that Dean saw, nearly three years ago.

Stephen nods.

Castiel pulls on a pair of boxers, because even in his own apartment he doesn't like wandering around naked, and enters the kitchen. That light is even brighter, but after a few blinks Castiel is able to adjust and get out a pan and utensil, then the eggs and a bowl. He's got scrambled eggs with tomato frying up when Stephen finally joins him.

Sounding alarmed, Stephen asks, "What happened to your back? You were in the office all week, did an unsub –"

"A desk, Stephen," Castiel interrupts, looking back. Another freakout about an injury? "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and rammed into a desk."

Stephen exhales. He sits at the breakfast bar which Castiel practically never uses, but still has stools for. "You make me feel paranoid."

Castiel scrapes the eggs off into two plates. "You're not paranoid, but you worry too much."

"You catch serial killers for a living, I think I'm justified in being worried," Stephen snaps.

"Are we going to get into this again?" Castiel asks, sighing. He puts one plate in front of Stephen, grabs two forks, and eats standing up. "It's part of the job. Desks and all."

"I'm not trying to fight," Stephen says, tone softening. He hasn't touched his eggs. "Really, I'm not."

"You may not be trying to fight, but you're also not letting this go, are you?"

Stephen stirs his eggs, has a bite. He looks disgruntled. "I've been talking to my sister."

"This is the third time we've fought about this in the last month, Stephen. And what, five or six before that?" Castiel puts his plate down. "Whatever you have to say, just say it."

Stephen doesn't answer for a long minute. He just looks at Castiel, and not with anger. He examines the planes of Castiel's face, then lowers his gaze to the rest of Castiel's body, resting on that old bullet wound. On the other side of Castiel's body, on his hip, are the scars he self-inflicted, and he self-consciously pulls up his boxers up to cover them. "I want you to quit the BAU. Not law enforcement. But do something less dangerous."

"Stephen –"

"Before you argue, let me make my case." Stephen gets up, still nude, and walks around the breakfast bar and offers Castiel his hand. "Please?"

Reluctantly, Castiel nods.

Stephen draws him not to the couch in the living room, but the bedroom. Stephen throws the pillows against the headboard, and silently urges Castiel to curl up next to him. He looks into Castiel's eyes from a distance of only a couple feet. Intimate.

"You know I've been spending a lot more time with my family. With my mom, and my sister. I love my job, you know that, it challenges my mind and I need that. I get that, Castiel, I do." Stephen pauses, but Castiel just listens. "But I also need my family. I also need balance in my life. I think I want to pursue marriage and adopting children. And I want to take the steps to get there with you."

Castiel can't keep meeting Stephen's eyes, his heart beginning to race.

"I can't see that happening with you gone as often you are, with a job as dangerous as you are. I know you said it's not normal, but the last three cases you came back bruised. Hurt. It kills me to see it. I don't want you in these dangerous situations. You've been through so much, Castiel, and I see you throwing yourself back in, and I really fear the day you're too slow and you don't come home to me. When you don't come home at all." Stephen puts his hand under Castiel's chin, raising his head. "Please, consider it."

"I don't want a life of safety. I never did." Castiel swallows. "Stephen, I left my parents behind and let them cut off all contact with me because I didn't want to hide from the world. I'm not going to start now. You know how I feel about you, but I can't do this, not even for you."

"Is this about Dean?" Stephen demands.

Castiel blinks, truly taken aback by that. "I worked with the BAU before Dean, Stephen, this has nothing to do with that."

Stephen sits up, separate. "I think it has everything to do with it. I may not understand exactly what happened to you, but I know it changed you permanently."

"That's not the point –"

"It is the point! You're so determined to live life how you did before, and act like nothing is wrong, like nothing's changed. I remember how much you flinched during the first few times we had sex, how nervous you were. You still won't fuck me, or let me touch you there. Your life has changed, Castiel, why can't you see that?"

"My life has changed, but what I want hasn't," Castiel snaps. "And you said you were fine with –"

"I am fine with it! Not all gay men like anal sex and that's fine, it's the reason that worries me. Why? Why would you do this to yourself? You're constantly putting yourself in danger from psychos like the one that held you prisoner for eighteen months, Castiel!"

"That's my choice!"

"It's a stupid one!" Stephen yells, angry.

"I don't care if you think it's stupid," Castiel grates, resisting the urge to jump off the bed, "it's my choice to make."

"I'm not – this is for your own good! I want to take care of you, and how can I do that when you refuse to let me?" Stephen is pleading. Really begging for Castiel to listen, to believe him, to take his side.

Castiel takes several deep breaths. "I needed you to take care of me, yes. But not anymore, and not like this."

"Why? Why can't you accept what I want to give you?" Stephen begs, touching him. "I want you to be happy, to be safe."

"Because this is control," Castiel snaps. "You can say it's for my own good all you want, but I'm tired of hearing those words. I heard it from the BAU when they ordered the police to arrest me if I tried to run from that Kansas police station that I fled to, and now I'm hearing it from you, and I'm not fucking doing it, Stephen, I'm not letting you make that call!" He pushes Stephen's hand off of his shoulder. "I need to make my own choices."

Stephen withdraws, glaring at him, but there's pain in his eyes, too. "I can't live this way. Worried out of my mind about you. Can't you understand that?"

"I can't live how you want me to," Castiel returns, not giving in. "Marriage? Children? I don't even know what to say to that, but I – I can't compromise on this."

Stephen's eyes are wet. "I can't either."

They stare at each other.

"Castiel …"

"All my life," Castiel says brokenly, "I've needed a purpose. Being a cop and then being an FBI agent has given me that in a way nothing else has. I can't honestly say that I am dedicated enough to you to – to be your spouse, or a father with you. You asked me why I never dated someone in law enforcement, and I think that I didn't because that meant it could go … this far." It's a thought that has crept into Castiel's mind slowly, getting a little farther with every argument with Stephen over this very issue.

Stephen searches his face. "What does this mean?" he whispers.

"You deserve someone better than me, Stephen," Castiel say softly.

"Don't say that," Stephen denies. "You're a wonderful man."

"Someone different than me, then," Castiel says, not letting himself be distracted. "Stephen, I don't think this is going to work. All we do is fight about this. You need someone who can be more for you."

There's no more denials from Stephen. The light has gone out of him, but he doesn't deny Castiel's words. "I'm willing to keep trying. I don't want this."

Castiel takes a deep breath. "I do."

"So that's it? You're ending us?" Stephen asks, wiping his wet eyes.

"We keep fighting about this, and I'm not going to change my mind," Castiel says gently. "Do you really want to drag this out, and hurt each other further?"

Defeat fills Stephen's face. It hurts to see, but Castiel honestly doesn't see another way out of this. Tensions between them have been increasing since Stephen's mother had her stroke. That kind of near-death experience with a family number changes priorities, and he's seen that start to come between them. Castiel's recent injuries on the job, though minor, have put stress on Stephen. He's finally seeing all the ways Castiel could die, all the danger he puts himself in. He understands Castiel's need to have his job, but he no longer shares it. Stephen might not want to break up with Castiel, but that doesn't mean it's not the right thing to do.

Castiel certainly feels like his heart is breaking. But he has to acknowledge this was inevitable.

Stephen leans forward and kisses him.

Castiel turns his head away, but Stephen follows him and whispers, "Don't say anything. Just – one more time."

Stephen kisses him again, and this time Castiel stays silent. This, too isn't a denial. This is a goodbye. Stephen undresses Castiel carefully and slowly, kissing Castiel's scars. In the darkness of Castiel's bedroom they rock against each other, gentle and slow and sweet. Castiel comes first, messily, and Stephen thrusts into the mess he's made, and Castiel memorizes everything about this moment. He does love Stephen. But he doesn't love Stephen _enough._

Stephen deserves more than that.

After, they lie in bed in total silence.

Castiel forces himself to get up and get a rag to clean them both up. When he's done, he sits by Stephen and asks, because he has to know, "Do you regret finding me in that bar?"

Stephen actually looks startled. "No. No, of course not."

"I've treasured the time I've had with you, I want you to know that," Castiel says, his voice breaking.

"I feel the same way. I'll never regret this year." Stephen swallows and steels himself, straightening his spine. "I want us to remain friends."

Castiel thinks of his parents, who love him, but not … enough. Not enough to endure. He doesn't blame Stephen any more than he did them, but it still hurts. "Like my parents?"

Stephen understands immediately. "No, like a real friend. I want to know about your life, even the scary parts."

Castiel laughs, and then cries. He wraps his arms around Stephen, and Stephen returns the embrace, comforting Castiel this last time.

"You've given me so much of yourself," Castiel says into Stephen's shoulder. "I will never stop being thankful for you."

"I feel the same," Stephen whispers.

They hold each other for the rest of the night, a slow goodbye. Though he doesn't express it, Castiel knows Stephen is angry about the breakup. Not so much by the fact that Castiel is ending the relationship, as much as the reason why – he understands that Castiel isn't going to change his mind, but he still thinks Castiel should, and so the anger burns on.

In the morning, Castiel gives Stephen back his key, and tells Stephen to keep his. They kiss, just once.

And then they part.

* * *

Three days later, Castiel hasn't said a word about the breakup to the team.

But Morgan has them gather after work, and admits, "So, I have news." He smiles, irrepressible, though also a bit shell-shocked. "Savannah is pregnant."

Amidst the congratulations, it also seems so solidify Castiel's decision.

Stephen wants a family. Castiel can't give him that. And while Stephen was willing to keep fighting, that fight would have been one for control. Castiel saw the hints of it in Stephen's behavior. He's a caretaker, and Castiel needed that desperately a year ago. A healthy, normal man to take care of him. But Castiel isn't the same person anymore, and he doesn't need his hand held. He doesn't want that kind of relationship, so similar to the unequal one he had with Dean. Yoking Stephen to him wasn't good for either of them.

In a way, he feels relieved. Like he's passed a test.

Balthazar, predictably, when he finds out insists on coming over for the weekend and making sure Castiel gives his relationship the sendoff it deserves, one with puking and hangovers. Reid comes over and lectures him on the effectiveness of hangover cures. Rossi shares a single scotch with him. Hotchner gives a quiet, "If you need to talk …" and JJ gives him a hug. Morgan is the only one to look at him, and ask why.

For once, Castiel is able to tell him the truth. It feels good to be able to do that.

* * *

Months later, he gets an email from James.

 _The trap worked. We didn't catch the son of a bitch who's leading all those vamps, but we got the second in command, the mate. Apparently sunlight really does sting like a bitch._

 _They got a lot of us, and there aren't many hunters left, so we're not taking any chances._

 _I'll keep you updated._

* * *

James doesn't answer Castiel's calls. Two weeks later, the number is disconnected.

* * *

Pennsylvania. Late winter.

Snow and darkness go hand in hand. The bodies in this case are found in the snow, in alleyways and industrial zones with no lights, but they didn't die of cold, though that wasn't immediately obvious. With no obvious injuries, except a frozen expression of terror on the victims' faces, the cause of death took time and a curious medical examiner. All the victims had simultaneous organ failure, and five tiny pinpricks that were possibly needle marks on the back of the neck. Drug tests were all clear, even for the rare drugs that could use that kind of organ shutdown.

They were up to seven bodies when the BAU was called in on the case. Baffled detectives simply decided they needed help.

Rossi begins with, "All abducted from their homes, with no evidence of struggle left behind. No useful prints. Some had locked doors, some didn't."

"All the victims were single and healthy," JJ says. They're sitting in a dusty conference room that the local police set aside for the team to use. "Other than that, location, age, race, and gender weren't factors for this unsub."

"Except the old," Morgan points out. "No one over fifty. Presumably because the unsub only wants healthy victims. They all exercised regularly and ate well, to the degree friends and family noted it. Other than that they have nothing in common, not even economic status."

Reid has crime photos spread out in front of him, a thoughtful finger to his mouth. "Five needles is an unusual way to kill someone, especially in a pattern like this. Why not one?"

"If it's not necessary," JJ says, "then it must be part of his signature, his motivation for the crime."

"It's possible the unsub thinks he's drawing the health out of this individuals," Reid muses. "Needles can symbolize for him the drawing of blood, the stuff of life. And the victims being single could be for easier targeting. Could our unsub be ill?"

"Possibly," Hotchner agrees. "But that's not enough information to go on. Is there any pattern to the dumping of bodies? Garcia?"

Garcia's voice comes over the speakerphone. _"Places that don't have people at night. Geographically, there's no connection. Different areas, different income levels, no lines or spirals or patterns at all."_

"Thanks, Penelope," Morgan says warmly.

 _"I'm sorry I can't give you more,"_ Penelope says, her disappointment in herself evident in her voice.

"This unsub's signature is well developed, with no accidents," Hotchner says. "Keep looking for similar cases. Maybe he made a mistake early on in his kills."

 _"Will do. Call me if you need me."_ A click.

"How is he dumping the bodies, then?" Rossi asks the team. "Some of these areas would be hard to get into, even if no one is there. The roof of an industrial warehouse holding computer chips isn't exactly easy to get into. The alley at a wealthy club with cameras and high walls. An import/export business's yard. Nothing on any tapes, it's like they appeared out of nowhere."

"These places must have a connection that allows our unsub to use them," Morgan states. "There's no other possible explanation."

"I think that's our lead," Hotchner decides. "Castiel?"

Castiel isn't talking because he's reading one of the witness statements. It was one that was largely dismissed as useless. The witness in question was a homeless man who insisted that he saw a thin, spindly shadow – specifically not a person – with red eyes dump the body in an alley by simply appearing with a floating body. It disappeared as the body hit the ground. It's vague, but it sparks a memory. Shadow people, for hunters, encompasses a pretty wide range of skills and kill methods, but this fits. "Huh?"

"Find something?" Morgan asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "Nothing concrete, just thinking. I'll let you know if it comes together."

"Then we split up. Castiel, JJ, you go together to the latest three dump sites. Rossi, Morgan, you take the next three."

"And the first?" Castiel asks Hotchner, putting the witness statements down.

"I'll take some uniforms along and speak to people. When any of you finish, you can come join me and give me another set of eyes."

The first dump site is the one least likely to give them recent information from witnesses and people who work or live in the area – memories tend to be short, not long – though it might be significant because it's the first in this area. They talk for a few more minutes about things to ask potential witnesses, like how many people work in the area, when are they there, is there anyone who comes through regularly on a job or otherwise, and so on.

Then they split up.

JJ and Castiel have always worked well together. Before they even met formally, Castiel saw how she was with people – she had a natural warmth, even under a veil of professionalism. He could easily see why she was the BAU's media liaison for so long. He also understood that that mix of personality traits and skills would make some people doubt her skills, so the first thing he did when they met is ask her for help.

They have been close ever since.

On the drive to the second dump site assigned to them, JJ asks, "What is going on with you and Morgan?"

Castiel sighs, his hands tightening on the wheel. "Nothing that affects –"

"But that's not what I asked. We're a team of profilers, Castiel, you think we didn't notice? You kind of patched things up with him six months ago, but it's never been the same."

Castiel glances at her. Of course he expected them to notice. But if Hotchner wasn't going to address it, he figured the team would follow that. For a while. "We had an argument."

"About?"

Castiel shrugs. "My professionalism, mainly."

JJ raises an eyebrow. "You've always been professional."

"Not when it comes to Dean."

JJ's mouth opens in a silent 'ah.'

Castiel knows better than anyone that silence is an effective tool of any interrogator, but he keeps talking anyway. "It's nothing that affects my ability to work. But Morgan thinks it will. Or does. Either way, he brought it to Hotch, and Hotch didn't act on it because there was nothing to act on."

JJ nods slowly. "You know we're here for you. To talk."

"I've done a lot of talking," Castiel says with a small laugh. "At this point, I'd rather move on."

"I could talk to Morgan," she offers.

Castiel shakes his head. "Don't, please. Morgan and I will work it out. Okay?"

JJ acknowledges that by saying, "So, a wealthy sports club. What do you think motivated our unsub to use that as a dump site?"

"I'm thinking this may be actual randomness," Castiel admits. "I know that the human mind naturally forms patterns, no matter how unconscious, with our movements." But what they're dealing with isn't human. Probably. "But I'm thinking our unsub may have actually used some method to ensure there's no pattern. Nothing for us to anticipate."

"The problem with pure chance, though, is that it makes it harder for him to continue undetected, if he's choosing high security areas. And he's been very skilled at being undetected, and kills are too close together for them to be planned months in advance."

They discuss it more before arriving.

Talking to all the employees and a good number of the members provides them with nothing, except one spooked cook who insists that he saw red eyes floating in the air, disappearing as soon as the cook got a good look. JJ frowns, even as Castiel's stomach sinks. Ignoring a curious look from JJ, he asks a few others if they've seen anything like that. A few employees admit to it, though none of the members do, scoffing at the very idea.

"What are you thinking?" JJ asks.

Castiel shrugs. "There was a homeless person who described something similar. Obviously our unsub isn't a ghost, but maybe there's some element of truth in there."

"We might want to have CSI check for hallucinogens. Maybe our unsub is using it to make sure people dismiss his presence at the dump sites."

Castiel nods, though he has no real hope of that.

The night ends with little new information. Kills have been five days apart; they have two more days to make progress.

Before going to any case, Castiel has gotten into the habit of researching what he could use locally if the case turned out to have a supernatural element. That and his own precautions – his own ankle knife blessed, a bottle with holy water, and so on – and he feels adequately prepared to deal with most creatures, at least in the short term, if not necessarily being capable of killing them. Lamb's blood is hard to find, and hardly something he can take on the plane, and so are a lot of other ingredients that hunters regularly carry around in their cars.

Castiel remembers seeing Dean's arsenal, when he brought the whole set in to make sure nothing was missing.

So Castiel knows all the local magic shops, at least the legal ones, and various new age stores that would have useful items. He's only had to use that knowledge once before, on a relatively easy (hunting) case. A simple spell to put a spirit to rest, accomplished before anyone even knew he was gone. He has no one left to ask for help, so he has to do this on his own.

Luckily, a midnight internet search that he takes great pains to hide tells him what he needs to do to dispatch this shadow serial killer.

This particular kind of shadow person draws the literal life out of humans, via its hand at the back of a victim's neck. They are incorporeal, and will take a victim into their incorporeal state right before they feed in private, in their lair. In order to be killed they first be made corporeal. That part isn't actually that difficult. The hard part is finding them in the first place.

But lore gives Castiel a clue there, too.

* * *

There's not a doubt in Morgan's mind that Castiel is hiding something.

Every time they have a case with any kind of supernatural element to the motivation or execution of the crime, Castiel tenses up. He asks odd questions, though nothing Morgan could point to definitively, because Castiel is far too smart to make a mistake like that. Morgan can practically see that Castiel works the case from a different angle than the rest of the team. Often he does find new ways of looking at evidence, including in ways that led to an obviously disturbed and human unsub, but Morgan suspects that's simply because Castiel knows as much supernatural lore as Reid does at this point. Though Castiel's is more modern, less researched, more of the ghost hunter type of lore.

Castiel's been twitchy since reading the witness statements. Morgan didn't miss the one about a dark figure with red eyes that disappeared into thin air after dumping one of the bodies.

Then today, Castiel disappears for nearly two hours _while on an active case_. He had a good explanation for it, going back to the station alone – which no one could confirm, due to the craziness of twenty prostitutes and their pimps being brought in at once – and grabbing something to eat before returning to help Reid go back over all the information they've collected. It works. In theory.

Morgan watches as Castiel gets up from the bed on the other side of their shared hotel room. "I'm going to go out, get some coffee, think some more. I can't sleep. You want to join me?" Castiel's eyes are guileless.

"No, thanks," Morgan says, already deciding he's going to follow Castiel. He'll use an undercover car from the local police; he already set it up, just in case.

Castiel nods and leaves, holstering his weapon before he goes.

Morgan dresses rapidly, including a vest, and heads out the back of the hotel. He grabs the keys under the back wheel of the nondescript sedan, gets in and pulls out of the parking lot. He can't see Castiel's car, a very obvious FBI issue SUV. It doesn't help that it's well after dark – Reid, Rossi and JJ are staying at the station for their shift, in case another kill is made tonight – so Morgan picks a direction and hopes it's correct.

It is. Morgan recognizes Castiel's license plate.

Morgan leans back and breathes out.

Castiel drives right past the coffee shop, instead heading to an older part of town. He gets out of the car, walks down an alley, then returns with a duffel bag. Morgan also notices that it's at this point that Castiel goes through the standard protocol to get rid of a tail. Morgan is only barely able to keep following, using guesses by driving past turning points and then doubling back. Only luck puts him back on Castiel's trail.

Morgan almost calls Hotchner. Almost. He's got the number dialed, but he hasn't hit call. Instead, he presses down on the gas.

He's baffled by their direction. Castiel heads straight into the depths of downtown. He picks a dilapidated warehouse seemingly at random, parks, and gets out. Morgan drives past and parks a full block away.

He finds the warehouse's front door picked.

The warehouse is largely empty. There's a huge clearing in the middle of half-broken boxes that have nothing in them.

Right there, moving purposefully, is Castiel. Drawing symbols in chalk on the ground.

"Castiel, what are you doing?"

Castiel jerks and looks up. His eyes widen. "Morgan, look out!"

A combination of instinct and habit overcome Morgan's suspicion; he listens and dodges to the left, drawing his gun on his presumed attacker with his feet planted wide, ready for an assault.

He doesn't fire. All he sees is dark smoke. No, it doesn't move like smoke. He can clearly see through it, and yet it moves and slides together like arms and legs and a torso. Red eyes blink into existence. He can see them glowing, but he can also see the half-torn boxes right through them.

What the fuck?

Morgan hears chalk moving across concrete behind him.

"Morgan, step back. Morgan!"

Morgan, stupefied by what he's seeing, backs up a few steps towards Castiel. JJ had mentioned that Castiel had a theory that the people seeing the floating red eyes had been exposed to a hallucinogen by the unsub. Is that what's happening? Morgan doesn't feel any of the blurred sense of reality that comes with drugs. He feels absolutely clear-headed. He's not dizzy.

The red eyes blink at him. Then lunge forward.

Morgan fires, one two three, but the bullets goes right through the smoke-figure. In the next instant, it's upon him, and he feels a hand in his gut, moving past his skin and creeping up his body, to his neck. It doesn't quite hurt, until the hand gets to the back of his neck. The warehouse flickers from his sight, interspersed with a kind of pure black that he didn't even think was possible. He knows, he knows that he's in a place no human should be. Floating in pure absence.

Pain flares, and Morgan screams, but no sound comes out – until it does.

The warehouse appears again and all the life drains out of his limbs. He falls. His gun drops from his hands. But his eyes are still open.

The red eyes have acquired a body, that of a naked old man. Castiel is facing it down with a knife in hand, and Morgan knows now that it's an 'it', not human, something inhuman. He can't move. Terror thrums through him, because he's totally helpless. Adrenaline surges with nowhere to go.

The thing's body is held askew, like the thing inside of it doesn't quite know how to use the limbs naturally. Still, it's fast, because when it moves to attack Castiel he can barely see the blur. But Castiel seems to know what to expect, because he acts in a way that no FBI agent would, backing away in a planned fashion. Morgan glances at the floor, at the lines of chalk that he can barely see from his position prone on the ground. Castiel is moving to the center.

The thing with red eyes hisses.

Castiel strikes, not where Morgan would expect, but he thrusts the knife into the thing's forehead. Even a strong person would have a hard time piercing the skull, but his knife sinks to the hilt. The pain from the back of Morgan's neck ceases.

The thing stops moving. It stands there.

Castiel withdraws the knife, which has no blood on it. No brain matter. He pulls his gun, and fires four times into the thing's chest. It finally collapses. Castiel checks for a pulse, then looks up at Morgan.

Morgan's in pain and dizzy, but he also knows what he saw. It wasn't a hallucination. That was real. He has the pain in his body to prove it. "Castiel. That was – that was a real monster."

Castiel nods, and nods again, lurching forward and kneeling at Morgan's side. He cups Morgan's face. "I know."

"We have to tell the team –" Morgan begins, struggling to sit up. Pieces of conversation flit through his head. Drugs. Blows to the head. Psychotic breaks. Is that what happened?

This feels so real.

"No! Morgan, you know what will happen if we tell the truth about what happened here. They'll tell you that you hallucinated it, and maybe one day you'll believe that, but it will ruin your career." Castiel doesn't let Morgan look away, ducking his head so he can maintain eye contact. "Morgan, if you tell the truth, I'll have to back you up, and we both lose our jobs. You have Savannah to think about, your child."

"How much of it is real?" Morgan asks. Meaning – everything.

"I can answer that, and I will, but not right now. Listen to me. I can hear the police sirens, someone must have reported your first shot. We don't have much time. I had a hunch, you insisted on coming with me, we found most of the stuff here already. We were attacked, by that man. He attacked you with a needle and I shot him and that's him, right there. His body."

"That wasn't his body. Not originally." Morgan pushes Castiel's hands away and leverages himself up, despite the sharp pain the back of his neck. He knows in some kind of shock – mental or physical, he can't tell, maybe both. Getting his mind to work at normal speeds is a struggle. He didn't see the shadow figure become that old man, but he also can't help but notice that there's no knife wound in the old man's head, despite seeing Castiel's blade sink into the hilt. Just the four shots to the chest.

When it was already dead.

"There's nothing we can do about that," Castiel says firmly. "We can only deal with the now. Do you understand?"

Morgan nods, haltingly. "You had a hunch. I followed you. We found the paraphernalia here already, and were attacked."

"Good. Good. I'm going to tell them you suffered a head injury so anything you don't know, just say you can't remember."

"And the hallucinogen," Morgan adds. "That JJ theorized. We'll get tested." Maybe it will offer an explanation. Morgan can't deny what he saw, what he felt, but by God, he wants to.

"That's a good idea. They won't find anything, but then those tests can't always find the weird drugs." Castiel nods to himself, running a hand through his hair. He swallows, bites his lip, then swallows again. Then he meets Morgan's gaze again, strong. "We'll get through this, Morgan. I promise you."

Then he calls dispatch.

* * *

Since Castiel was supposedly also exposed to a hallucinogen, Hotchner insists he goes to the hospital and gets his blood drawn. Castiel submits to about an hour of being monitored, then says he feels fine and disconnects himself from all the wires. He checks on Morgan, but Morgan is fine. JJ, Hotchner, Reid and Rossi are all in his hospital room. From the few fragments Castiel gets, he gave Hotchner the agreed upon story that Castiel has already delivered. It has a few holes, and Castiel knows there will be questions – later. Morgan gives Castiel a long, steady look when he enters the room, but he doesn't draw attention to Castiel. He's going to wait, Castiel knows.

Wait to get the whole story. To confirm the truth that he now knows. Castiel remembers what it is to see the supernatural so clearly, and be unable to deny your senses. Your own mind.

Castiel begs off going to back to the hotel just yet, saying he wants some fresh air. JJ looks concerned, but they let him go.

He heads to the hospital roof.

Ignoring the old cigarette butts that speak of a lot of hospital personnel using this as a smoking spot, Castiel sits on the highest roof, another hospital building about twenty feet below. There's one entrance, one exit.

The sky is a clear dark blue. Castiel looks up and thinks.

Hunters are a dying community. James admitted it, before disappearing himself. The apocalypse seriously depleted their numbers, so that hunting families that have been in the business for generations simply disappear over the course of a year or two. From the demons being released by the Colt, to Lucifer being freed, to Eve and the Alphas being loosed upon the world, hunters have struggled to adapt to a world very changed. Dean never encountered a demon – in all the years of hunting with his father, while Sam was at college – until only six months before his father made a deal with one. Sam closed the gates of hell, so the numbers of demons have begun to drop again, from a height of hundreds or thousands to maybe only a few dozen active across the United States.

Other creatures aren't stopped by Sam's sacrifice.

Ghosts, vampires, ghouls, and dozens of others. Shadow people, like the one Castiel just killed. Castiel simply can't ignore their existence any longer. Too many people are dying.

Dean has a use out in the world. Yes, he committed a crime, and not one in pursuit of a higher goal. But that crime was against Castiel, so Castiel has some right to say what becomes of him, surely? Legally, of course not. Though his crimes were against a specific person, those kinds of crimes are also considered crimes against society, which is why the government prosecutes criminals, not individuals.

But then, Castiel is getting lost in legal theory that has no knowledge of the supernatural. There's no philosophical papers on the subject to research. No one else to ask.

Well, there's Morgan, with freshly opened eyes. He could talk to Morgan, now. Get his advice.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

He feels stupid praying out loud, and he knows he doesn't have to, so he doesn't. _Anna. It's Castiel._ He wonders if she knows that immediately. Like caller ID. _I want you to rescue Dean from prison. I know Dean doesn't want that, but if you tell him I'm asking, he'll follow you. Tell him to follow his brother's protocol where I live, and I'll find him there._ First hotel in the phone book.

"Tell me why I should."

Castiel jumps to his feet. Anna is standing behind him, feet planted solidly apart, though of course Castiel knows he could throw a nuke at her and not harm her, or at least not permanently. She's still in a slip of a girl, red hair around her shoulders. "How did you find me?"

"I found your friends first."

Well. That makes sense. A weakness Castiel knows he always had, just like still working at the BAU would allow Dean to know the general area he lived.

Anna tilts her head. "Answer me."

"For one, you owe me," Castiel says calmly, casually walking sideways. He heads for the maintenance building that sticks up from the roof like a little shed.

"Do I? I do not recall doing any such thing to owe you a debt."

"You did something you knew was wrong," Castiel points out. "You can talk all you want about not having the same morality as humans, but I have a hard time believing you'd think it was perfectly acceptable for Dean or anyone else to hold an angel against their will, the way I was."

Anna's eyes narrow. She doesn't argue, asking instead, "Why do you want Dean released? He has prayed to me repeatedly asking me not to come to his aid."

"I need a hunter." And perhaps, on some level, now that he's forgiven Dean, now that he trusts Dean isn't going to repeat his kidnapping, he wants Dean free. He's submitted to prison for nearly a year. Castiel leans against the maintenance shed, finding that little sharp, jutting out piece of metal, and slicing his palm open on it. Blood drips to his fingertips, on the hand that Anna can't see. "And if I ask, I think Dean will be one for me."

"He has successfully integrated into prison, while securing his own safety," Anna points out, regarding him with alien eyes for all the care she seems to be showing for Dean. "He did that for you. Is that not what you wanted?"

"Are you going to do as I ask, or not?" Castiel demands. His forefinger traces a symbol he memorized more than a year and a half ago.

Anna doesn't answer, seeming to consider what he says.

"By the way," Castiel adds, "it's rude to come to someone uninvited." And he slams his palm over the symbol.

Anna's hazel eyes widen, and then light surrounds her, and then it blows her away into nothing. Banished.

There's a kind of vicious glee in seeing the empty roof. Finding out that angels existed and had little kind of moral compass was both an odd and terrifying moment. Dean had lived with it for years, but Castiel hadn't. Of course, Dean had also lived for years with the knowledge of how to banish and kill angels, and defend himself properly.

Dean.

Castiel turns and looks at the bloody symbol, then collapses against the shed's wall, and slides down until his ass meets hard ground. Dean's adapted to prison. Was it right of him to ask Anna to take him out, when he wanted to do right by Castiel by putting himself in a cell? Castiel ignored Dean's decision to do the right thing. He doesn't know.

He stares down at his bloody palm, already coming up with an explanation for the rest of the team. It will make him a look a fool, and he'll have to get a tetanus shot boost, but he can't walk downstairs like this without a reason. He smears the angel banishing symbol into meaningless lines, and then heads downstairs. JJ and Hotchner are talking near the nurse's station. He doesn't see the other two. He gives his flimsy explanation and gets his hand wrapped.

He finds Morgan alone in his room, pulling on his coat. He stops when he sees Castiel. "I bet this is going to take a while," Morgan says dryly.

Castiel smiles.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N** : Here we go! As a side note, I'm going to try to finish this story in about two months. The reason? I'm seven months pregnant, and once baby comes, I expect to have a lot less time to write. :p I've already started on the next chapter, and hope to have it out in two weeks or so.

 **Warnings (spoilers!)** : Reference/remembering dub-con sex, possible suicidal ideation, depression.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dean sits in his prison cell and repeats three words: "I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you."

He realizes he's saying it out loud, and stops himself. He takes his hands off his head, pulling his knees in and intertwining his fingers.

Cas is probably twenty miles away by now. Dean doesn't know if he'll ever see him again. But 'I think you will' means the world to him. It's hope.

He looks at his six by nine foot cell. There's not much to it. A bed, a toilet, and the tiniest side table he's ever seen, which folds up into the wall. It's small, yeah. But there's no knives waiting, no demon telling Dean to stay on the rack or put someone else on it, no pain. Just isolation. Dean figures he kind of deserves that, at this point.

Cas didn't exactly promise not to pray to Anna, but then he couldn't really, not with Agent Morgan standing there, listening to their every word. But the fact that Cas simply let it go and let Dean say goodbye and fucking _forgave_ Dean seems like a pretty strong indication that he won't. Cas, better than anybody, would know the difference between forgiveness and forgetting. And Dean needs to be here. For Cas's sake, but also, he's beginning to really realize, for his own. To get his head on straight, in a way he can't when he's out killing monsters and drinking himself into a coma every night.

Over the past week, he's been going through alcohol withdrawal, and that was after almost stopping cold turkey once he made the decision to turn himself in. Once he made the decision to do the right thing by Cas. To be punished for wrongs he did commit.

His new tattoos hurt, too. Cas said he didn't want Dean dead, and Dean is assuming that's still true, so he took every measure he could. Several purification rituals, tattoos up the wazoo – six of them, mostly on his torso, and the federal prison system accommodated him nicely by putting him in solitary immediately. Demons would have once been the biggest problem, considering their natural mobility, but thanks to Sam, he doesn't have to worry about that. If he's put in gen pop, he'll have to be a lot more wary, but for now, he feels relatively confident that he's not going to end up dead in the next week.

He gets sentenced in another two weeks, according to his lawyer. He figures he's going to have a lot of time to think, so he's been trying to decide what to do with all that time.

There's no monsters to fight here. This isn't purgatory, the last place he spent a considerable amount of time alone, never sleeping, always killing. This is three meals a day, limited access to a small library, and gray walls. And, of course, Cas. His living ghost, haunting him. Maybe that's not an appropriate way to think of him, but everything that Dean has learned over the last eight months tells him that he's a ghost for Castiel, too.

Dean supposes he could write a hunter's handbook. All the accumulated knowledge of the occult that Dean Winchester knows. It would at least give his lawyer an apoplexy, when he tries to defend Dean from being prosecuted for serial killings across the United States. Dean doesn't intend to plead guilty to those – he didn't do it, and he's not going to give law enforcement an easy way out for those crimes by blaming it all on him.

He laughs. And then he cries.

* * *

Dean doesn't say a word when the judge lays out his sentence. Two hundred and fifty one years, to be served one after the other. He's somehow pleased that so much of that time is for raping Castiel.

Life it is.

* * *

A month later, Texas extradites him for a death penalty case. So maybe more like ten years.

* * *

Dean has an appointment with a forensic psychologist who wants to speak about Dean's case, but Dean doesn't make it.

He's being held in a federal prison in Texas while Texas prepares for the trial. It's a maximum security facility with fairly small blocks, which is probably why he was moved to general population – Dean Winchester is dangerous, but not yet convicted of murder, and he's been cooperative so far. So Dean figures it's just a cost-saving measure. He doesn't mind. He got a lot of comments in rough bars when he was younger about his pretty mouth, and beat the shit out of a lot of people for it, but as he's gotten older the comments have stopped or changed. And Dean's always been able to protect himself against regular humans.

First day there, a guy tries to take him in the showers. Dean chokes him out. He ignores the stares and whispered comments and finishes his shower. Two days in solitary later, he's out again.

Dean knows that prison has its own hierarchies without the prisoner population. He's been in jail before, though usually not for long, and while his last stay – when the BAU caught him during Cas's captivity – resulted in solitary, most of the time he's been with other prisoners.

So he plays it calm. He doesn't react to someone who calls him a faggot, or a cocksucker, or anything else their limited imaginations can come up with. They can call him what they like, he doesn't give a shit. He wants to be left alone, left out of the power games. He's already decided that any contact or threats will be met with force, but otherwise he ignores everyone else. It's not exactly about serving his time – he knows he has to live here. Really live here, at least until he's on death row, which let's face it, is going to happen sooner or later. Dean's connected to too many murders. Sooner or later a jury is going to buy the evidence. In the meantime, though, Dean's got to live, and that means human interaction. Purgatory really wasn't great for his sanity.

But fear of Dean comes first.

He watches the race gangs group up, and doesn't join any of them. He ignores the groups of murderers and rapists. They seem wary of him. Good.

Fifth day there, a guy covered in tattoos Dean doesn't care to look at sits opposite him in the mess hall and says, "So, do FBI agents have a tight ass?"

Dean puts down his spoon of something unidentifiable. Anger, a deep furious kind full of sharp edges that he remembers from hell, rises. "You don't say a fucking word about him."

Tattooed guy grins. "Oh, come on. Who hasn't wanted to fuck over a cop? But you – you got to fuck one nice and –"

Dean leaps over the table and slugs him, vision red with rage. He wants to talk about Cas? Cas? No one talks shit about Cas. He'll kill anyone who tries. Dean owes Cas nothing less, and any fear he had of hurting another human being died with his breaking in hell, so he doesn't hesitate to take this farther. He scrambles over the table and over the guy's prone body. Tattooed guy holds up his fists, legs curling in to kick, but Dean is faster. Four calculated blows break his ribs, both sides, his jaw, and then the last lands in his gut. Dean stomps on his right femur and tattooed guy screams at the bone shatters under the blow.

One of tattooed guy's friends, presumably, enters the fight while the guards start to react. Dean takes him out with an elbow to the face, striking him hard enough to knock the guy clear unconscious. Second and third friend go down similarly, their street brawling no match for Dean's training and experience. Each splatter of blood and crunch of broken bone feels good. Satisfying.

After all, hunting requires a certain enjoyment in killing monsters.

It takes a lot of conscious effort not to fight back against the guards, who come in with clubs and beat him until he hits the floor. He's laughing when a club lands against his skull, and he loses consciousness.

He wakes up with a pounding headache. He also discovers he's strapped down, when he tries to do his usual recon of the area after he's gotten an injury. All he can really see is a white ceiling. And some steel cabinets in the corners of the room.

A doctor walks over to him. "Today's date? Do you know where you are? What's the last thing you remember?"

"Texas prison. And guards knocking me out."

The doctor nods and makes a note on Dean's chart. "No bleeding in your skull. We'll monitor you over the night, then you go to solitary." He walks away without having ever once meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean's lets his head fall against the hard pillow with a thump.

Here's hoping he won't have to do this again.

* * *

He spends his two weeks in solitary thinking about Cas. At least once the pounding headache goes away.

Last he spoke to Cas, he was working as a full member of the BAU again. Cas had a boyfriend, though Dean doesn't know much about him beyond that, not even his name. He stomps on the familiar possessiveness that comes into his mind when he thinks about that. He does know that Cas's job and that relationship gave Cas a lot of stability that he needed. When Dean thinks about that first phone call from Cas, where Cas screamed at him about how Dean had fucked him up and told Dean he wanted Dean in hell, to the last one, where Cas was calmly asking Dean to consider his actions, to really figure out why Dean did all those fucked up, evil things, he knows that Cas is doing a lot better.

Dean was right in one way. Once Cas got outside, he got better.

Dean smiles a bit, and gets to his feet, finding a decent pacing rhythm. He touches the concrete walls of his cell, fingertips grazing the gouges left by someone else prior. A solitary cell is small, basically a box with a metal door. It's nothing like hell, he reminds himself. Sometimes the walls give him the jitters, but he's able to calm himself down easily enough.

There's a certain relief in being in prison, even. When he gave Cas the location to the bunker, he'd honestly given it a fifty-fifty chance that Cas would give it to the BAU. Cas rejecting him by turning him over to the police was, well, his right. Dean hoped, back then, that he could do something to make things up to Cas, and giving up that control was all he could think of besides apologizing, and an apology is worth shit. So he hoped that he could get Cas's forgiveness, somehow, or just maintain contact, do something, _have_ something. But he'd been hoping in the blind.

In ignorance, really.

Cas is smarter than Dean is, of course. He knew that Dean's 'making amends' was meaningless without Dean knowing what it was for. He walked Dean through it, and then once Dean got a good glimpse, he couldn't stop seeing all the shit he'd done. All the evil in it. How much he hurt Cas, and he hurt Cas badly. Cas told him he didn't want to die, but Dean isn't entirely sure that's the case. He at least got close, when Dean found him all bloodied in his garden, red over green, and after that Cas chose sanity over everything. He chose to give himself to Dean in order to survive.

Dean did that. Dean is responsible for that.

It's best he's here. Even if Cas wanted it him out in the world, that isn't really safe for Cas. Because Dean still loves him. Still wants him. Still dreams about his body, his smile, his laugh, his way of seeing past Dean's defenses. Seeing Dean. Dean still craves it, even as he knows he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve Cas.

Dean is afraid of himself.

Cas got better out in the world. Maybe Dean will get better apart from it.

* * *

When Dean finally gets out of solitary and put back in his normal cell, he has a new cellmate. He stops in the cell door, and then the guard says, "Get in." Dean obeys, and the cell door slides shut behind him. Since this is a maximum security facility, they're only allowed outside in shifts, and spend a fair amount of time in cells. Dean's last cellmate didn't speak, so they got along fine. He folds his arms and waits.

"Hey, I'm Daniel," his cellmate says, turning around. He's an older guy, out of shape with a dark tan complexion. He kind of looks like someone's grumpy old uncle with receding, wispy hair and a pleasant smile.

Dean stares at him a second and then says, "I'm keeping top bunk."

"Sure, sure," Daniel says, nodding. "So, for survival's sake, I'm an old man and you just got out of solitary for beating four guys into the hospital, what do I not do?"

"You know why I'm in here?" Dean asks.

Daniel nods again. "The FBI agent. Though of course you've got a pending death penalty trial, I hear."

"Don't talk about Cas, and we'll get along fine," Dean says flatly.

Daniel swallows. "Got it." He pauses. "Does that mean we can talk about other stuff? I get really bored stuck in here for fifteen hours a day."

Dean swings himself up onto the top bunk, grabbing a book he left in here on the way. "I guess."

"You wanna know why I'm in here?" Daniel's voice floats from below him.

"Are you innocent?" Dean asks.

Daniel laughs. "Nope."

Dean puts the book down. "Then sure, why not."

"I murdered my wife."

Dean blinks at the ceiling, unsure how to feel about that.

"Got drunk, got angry, and bashed her skull in. Called the police myself when I woke up the next morning." Daniel's voice goes wistful. "Been here thirty years, almost."

Dean's mouth is dry. "Do you regret it?"

"Every day."

Reluctantly, because he wants to know the answer, but he doesn't know if Daniel will have one or hold it against Dean, he asks, "What do you do besides regret it?"

Daniel is silent for a while. "You want an honest answer? I'm an old timer, gone soft in some ways."

"Yeah."

"Got some therapy. Group therapy, they don't do individual unless you're doing something like smearing your shit on the walls. They have that stuff in here, believe or not, trying to make sure we don't go back to beating our wives when we get out. You get mocked for it, but the opinion of a twenty year old gang banger isn't worth much, not to me. You see'em come and go, live and die in here. They aren't happy. And I guess no one's happy in prison, but I guess you're not supposed to be."

Dean turns over to face the wall. "Night."

This, being here, is the choice Dean's made. All the stuff he did to Cas, he knows. Now it's about not repeating it.

* * *

The next morning, the guard takes him straight of his cell to see the forensic psychologist. Dean got a warning from his lawyer about talking to her (actually advised against it entirely), because she's going to be interested in crimes he's currently on trial for, not just the ones against Cas. He knows from talking to Cas while he was holding Cas prisoner that serial killers are interviewed after being convicted, because research into serial killers gives the BAU and anything like it greater insight into how those people think and operate. So he's not really surprised a psychologist wants to talk to him. He's not sure what he's going to say, actually, because on one hand his lawyer is right, and on the other hand, there's not much point to keeping silent because he's not getting out of here, and he's not even getting out of the death penalty. And, well, he's curious.

The guard cuffs him to the table, but with a fairly long chain this time. He still won't be able to reach the other side, but he's not forced to lean over, either.

A couple of minutes later, a middle-aged woman comes back with the guard. She's an ashy blonde, with some gray already mixed into the light strands. She's dressed in a black business suit, high heels clacking as she draws the chair out from the table and sits. Her back is straight, her posture perfect, and she's got tiny glasses sitting on her nose. She places her briefcase on the table, but doesn't open it.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean eyes her. He's gotten used to 'Mr. Winchester' or 'inmate.' He supposes this is a new tactic. "Hey."

"Thank you for seeing me. My name is Dr. Merris, and I'm a forensic psychologist. I study the lives and case histories of people like you. I want to interview you, to better understand you. Do you have any questions?" Blunt, simple, to the point.

"What do you want to know?" Dean asks warily.

Dr. Merris folds her hands and gives him a polite smile. "Whatever you're willing to tell me."

Dean rolls his eyes. "No, you're after something, I want to know what it is."

"All right. I'm interested in your childhood, and how that has affected your criminal history. I'm doing a study on the subject."

"How it's affected my criminal history? Not my criminal history itself?"

"Well," and she finally hesitates, "a considerable portion of your criminal history is still pending trial. Our meetings will not be private or covered by confidentiality laws. Anything said would be a matter of public record."

Dean nods slowly. "So basically, you want to get the background info while waiting for my conviction for all the serial killings? That's what you're interested in, not Cas?"

Dr. Merris answers frankly. "Yes. Of course if you're willing to discuss Agent Novak, I'd be happy to include that, but my prior research indicates you wouldn't be willing."

Considering their meeting got delayed because of the fight Dean started, yeah, that would make sense. He's betting she knows about that. "And what do I get out of this?"

"I've been told more than once that prison is a pretty boring place, Dean." She raises one perfectly trimmed eyebrow.

Dean laughs. "Yeah. Yeah." He looks away, thinking. "So you're a psych? Psychologist? Does that mean you did all the normal training psychologists do?"

She blinks. "Yes, in addition to special training and research in criminal psychology."

"So, like, you did therapy and that kind of thing?"

Finally wary, she replies, "Yes, I did, though of course that was years ago."

"What … what do you think the goal of prison is?" Dean asks.

He's taken her aback again. "Well, that's a complicated question to answer. While I believe that some people are too dangerous to be allowed out into the larger world, I also feel that prisons should rehabilitate, not simply punish, and work to reduce the amount of returning prisoners by addressing the problems that made them commit crimes in the first place."

Dean frowns. "For me, I – I want to do right by Cas." He stops.

Dr. Merris waits.

"Do you believe in heaven?"

Dr. Merris answers slowly. He gets the feeling she's not used to feeling off guard. "Yes."

Dean nods. "I do, too. And if I see Cas there someday, I want to be able to be – to be good. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"You're concerned that you won't be able to reconcile with Agent Novak in heaven?" She sounds like she's guessing, but she's right.

"Yeah. That's it. So how about we make a deal?"

"I'm listening."

"You help me work through why I hurt Cas, and make sure I can't repeat it, and I'll tell you everything you want to know. And not just about my childhood, all that crap, but the rest. I'll sign a waiver. I know I'm not getting out of here alive, and I somehow don't think my childhood issues will be interesting enough for you to come here more than a few times."

Dr. Merris stares at him for a long time. Dean bets this conversation took routes that are really weird for her. The afterlife, therapy, Dean not giving a shit about his upcoming death penalty trial. "I have several conditions before I agree."

"Okay."

"I will not contact Agent Novak for you. I want that to be clear."

Dean nods quickly. "I don't want you to bother him. He's moving on, I know that."

"Any therapy I give you will not have the medical right of privacy, due to its nature. Before I actually commence that, I'm going to check and see if the prison can't give you individual sessions, since you're willing, which would fall under medical privacy laws. I need to do my own due diligence."

"Okay," Dean agrees, his respect for her rising by a notch.

"As a consequence of that, if I can't get you private therapy, anything you say about Agent Novak will be on the record. You seem to care about him, so I want that to be absolutely understood by you. What you say could affect him."

"It is," Dean says. He kept his confession as low-detail as he could while still making sure he admitted everything. He didn't talk about how Cas cried, how Cas self-harmed, all the things that Cas might be ashamed of. Dean knows he had to tell the FBI a fair bit about what happened in order to come back, on the record, and that his therapist probably knows all the dirty details, but the comments about Cas he's heard in prison mean that anything Dean says coming out is a valid concern. "Thanks," he adds.

Dr. Merris waits a few seconds, then says, "All right. If you're going to sign a waiver, I'll come up with a document for your lawyer to review and for you to sign. It'll list all your rights, what you're waiving and agreeing to. Do you have any questions?"

Dean silently shakes his head.

She smiles at him for the first time. He can't decide if it's another polite smile, or a genuine one. He wonders how many sociopaths she's interviewed, and if she thinks he's one. "I'll see you in two weeks."

* * *

Dean's lawyer has a shit fit, but Dean signs. Dean's case goes to the pre-trial phase.

* * *

The thing about Dr. Merris is that she doesn't react.

When Dean did a stint in juvie for stealing some food, they had some required therapy and an initial mental health screening. The same thing happened when the BAU caught him and sent him to a supermax – he got screened for mental health issues. All of those doctors were professional, sure, but they at least attempted some kind of warmth or understanding. Dr. Merris stays cool. It kind of makes Dean feel like a bug under a microscope, but at the same time it's kind of reassuring because he feels like she's not faking reactions to manipulate him, which was pretty apparent when he dealt with the BAU, even if it was effective at the same time.

The screening he got this time in Texas resulted in the psychiatrist wanting to put him on anti-psychotics. Dean declined, and since he hasn't been violent towards guards or otherwise nonfunctional, they apparently can't force the issue.

Dean did some research on Dr. Merris, and she's been in the studying psychos field for twenty years. She's interviewed some famous serial killers that Dean's never heard of, written a lot of papers and one textbook. She's never consulted with the BAU, but they read her work.

"Before we begin, there's something we should discuss," Dr. Merris says at the first of their bi-monthly meetings.

Dean waits. The other prisoners knew where he was going and called out, "Cuckoo, cuckoo!" but Dean intends to take this seriously. He's chained to a table bolted to the floor in a gray room for the next hour, and he's going to use that time well.

"I haven't given someone therapy in nearly fifteen years. I can identify and help you identify your own issues and the correct response, but there any similarity to prior therapy will end. I'm saying formally now, as I said in your waiver, that this isn't official therapy of any kind."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Okay."

"I've read your BAU case file, as well as all your confessions and video recordings of interrogations. From that and the fact that you specifically requested therapy to assist in your issues with partners, I don't think a warm loving approach is either necessary or helpful. Or something I can give you, because there's a reason I didn't go into individual therapy."

"I'm not looking for a mama," Dean snaps.

"Good. Because I'm not one. I will be hard on you."

"I expect that."

She nods and starts consulting her notes, which are scribbled so badly Dean can't read them upside down. "First, let's start with your childhood. Then we'll move on to talk about how you can improve your relationships."

It feels weird to talk about Sam again. Cas was the last person to hear these stories, to ask these kinds of questions. And it does largely end up being about Sam – while his Dad was his Dad, and gave him orders, Sam was Dean's childhood in every way that really mattered. Losing Dad hurt. Losing Sam was so, so much worse. So while he details how he was left with a young Sam starting at seven, learned how to change diapers, and did most of Sam's potty training, Dad doesn't enter into the picture a lot, except in the absences. Even Dean can tell that.

She asks him questions about Dad specifically, things he did when Dean was young, if Dad ever hit Dean. He didn't. Words were far more effective and cutting, really. She wants examples, and though he's deeply uncomfortable, he gives them.

Halfway through, she finishes her notes and then puts them away, taking out another writing pad. "Have you ever heard of Moral Reconation Therapy?"

"I'm happy you think so highly of my educational background."

She doesn't laugh. "You said that you want to have a better relationship with Agent Novak in the afterlife, correct?"

Dean nods.

"Moral Reconation Therapy is a cognitive behavioral therapy often used with domestic abusers and sexual offenders. I feel this best applies to your situation. Would you agree?"

"Yeah, makes sense to me. What does reconation mean?" Dean asks, stuttering over the word a little.

"Reevaluation of decisions."

Dean snorts. "Well, that definitely applies then."

"Tell me why you kidnapped Agent Novak."

"Um, well. He's my soulmate." Dean holds up a hand. "Just bear with me on that part. I know you probably want to attack the crazy at the source, but that's not it."

Dr. Merris dips her head in acknowledgement.

"I saw him at one of my crime scenes. And I felt this immediate pull towards him. I ended up following him for the next week, and then when the BAU went home, I did research on him and then stalked him at his apartment."

"Okay, but why? You said you felt a pull. What did you think about that?"

"Think about it?" Dean echoes. "I guess I didn't really think about it. Not that part. I just had to know him, felt like I knew him already in some way. I wanted – more."

"What was your thought process about wanting more from him? Why did you want more?"

Dean opens his mouth and closes it. He could give her the spiel about soulmates, but somehow he doesn't think that's what she's asking, even if she would believe that answer. She's asking on an emotional level. Why did he want more from Cas? "I was lonely. He felt like a connection."

Cas would probably give Dean a lecture on the psychology of some subtype of stalker, but Dr. Merris just nods and says, "And why were you lonely, Dean?"

"Sam died. Sam was dead." Dean's throat tightens, but he adds, "I was – I was so fucked up by that. I've never been able to be alone. When Sam was in college, and Dad started going on separate hunts, I just buried myself in women in bars, but I couldn't do that anymore. It just didn't mean anything. Not with everyone I loved and who loved me dead."

"You were in pain," Dr. Merris says softly.

"Yeah," Dean whispers.

"You said you stalked him. How did you decide to kidnap him? Walk me through your thought process."

Dean straightens on his hard chair, bolted to the floor. He stares at his nails, blunt and dirt-lined. "It was supposed to be temporary. I would meet him, get to know him, and then let him go."

"You're dodging the question," Dr. Merris says. "You tell me what you did, what you intended, but not why. You need to examine the why, Dean."

Dean frowns. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," she says bluntly, and then waits for him to get over being offended.

"I guess I figured that he – he'd be scared, but not really hurt. That it was justified because that was the only way." Dean resists the urge to squirm.

"The only way for what?"

"To see him!" Dean shouts, losing his patience.

Dr. Merris doesn't even blink. "But why did you need to see him?"

"I already told you I was fucking lonely."

"So you were in pain?"

Dean stares at her. "Yes. Didn't I already say that?"

"And you thought Agent Novak would ease that pain?" Dr. Merris presses.

"Yes. Yes, I fucking thought that."

"So to you, kidnapping Agent Novak was in justified because you were in pain?"

Dean rolls his eyes but nods.

"Did you think that kidnapping Agent Novak was the right thing to do? Morally speaking?"

Moral Reconation Therapy, Dean remembers. "No."

"So what basis did you act on?"

There must be a reason she's drawing this out. "Because I was in pain."

"Dean, why did your pain overcome your sense of right and wrong?"

Because – because his pain was horrible. He couldn't take it. He didn't want to live that way, and he didn't want to die. "Because it wasn't my fault that Cas would arrest me as soon as he laid eyes on me. It wasn't my fault that I never met, that I couldn't meet him normally. I'd done so much for other people, and I never – never got anything back. Because I thought it was owed to me. Not to suffer so much."

"Dean, when you chose the absence of pain and the possibility of pleasure over your moral reasoning, that's when your abuse of Castiel began."

Castiel. She used his name.

"Was it Castiel's fault that you had a criminal history?"

Soft, Dean says, "No."

"Was it his fault you suffered?"

"No."

"Did he wrong you?"

"No."

"Why did you hurt him, then?"

Dean looks away. "I get it."

"Do you?"

"I didn't blame him, but I used every wrong against me to justify kidnapping him. To put my pain first, ahead of his."

Dr. Merris sits back. Dean thinks she might be surprised, but he's not sure. "Yes." She pauses. "Dean, did you talk to someone about this? A professional?"

Dean shakes his head. "Not a professional," because Cas isn't, technically speaking.

"Could I speak with this person?"

"No," Dean says, shaking his head to emphasize his point. "No, definitely not."

She drops it. "Then Dean, I want you to think about this until I see you again. Should you make a decision based on pain? If not pain, what then?"

But Dean knows the answer. "I know I shouldn't. You make a choice based on what's right or wrong, not what it means for you. Sam – Sam did that, when he died." Dean pauses. "He chose the right thing over his pain, and mine. But God, I did it anyway."

Dr. Merris just says, "Okay, then, how would you change what happened? Not just avoiding the subject entirely, but what would be the best way to handle that pain you were feeling? A way that doesn't break the law or hurt anyone?"

Dean has no fucking idea.

"Think about it," Dr. Merris advises. "I don't expect you to have a full answer, but think about it as much as you can."

Dean goes back to his cell feeling numb. Daniel's not back from the yard yet, so the guard just locks the cell door behind him and Dean swings up to his bunk, grabbing a book he doesn't even bother to open.

He knew that his thoughts were sliding past key points the entire time he drove with Cas in his car trunk. He used a lot of justifications. He wouldn't hurt Cas, even if Cas was afraid of that. Dean wasn't a bad guy, he reasoned. Cas would be okay just for a while. After all, the initial terror of being kidnapped wasn't much compared to what Dean's been through, right? He didn't even bother to examine the right and wrong, really, not beyond a surface level. Just like usual. He didn't think about if the goal was about doing the right thing, unlike all the laws he broke as a hunter for the fucking right reasons. Because the goal was to do good. He supposes that he got used to not thinking about the rights and wrongs of the world, because he wasn't in that world.

The goal in kidnapping Cas was to end Dean's loneliness. Because Dean felt like he was owed something. Not by Cas, but by the world at large, fate maybe. And there was fate, showing him this beautiful man.

It's not like Dean didn't know that. Cas made that pretty clear, through all their conversations. Dean was selfish.

But now it's ringing through his head, the word Dr. Merris kept using. Pain. Choosing to act based on pain.

That's the key. Where he failed. That's the beginning.

* * *

Dean gets to know Daniel.

Daniel's been in prison for nearly thirty years. He got life for killing his wife in a drunken rage, and was eligible for parole after twenty years, but the first ten years of his prison sentence were mostly spent fighting with other inmates. After two knifings – for which he got additional years - Daniel got sent here.

"Settled down," Daniel says, his voice carrying from the bottom bunk.

Dean has his arms crossed under his head, providing more of a cushion than the thin and crappy prison pillow.

"Realized that I was just doing the same shit in prison I'd done before ending up here."

"You ever think about getting out, Daniel?" Dean asks, relaxing. He's pretty sure that Daniel isn't a supernatural monster. Can't do most of the tests, but if he is, he's one of the best fakers Dean's ever seen.

"My next parole hearing is in eight months," Daniel replies. "I was eligible after twenty, like I said, but I wasn't doing too great back then, though a hell of a lot better than when I first came into the joint. But been doing good for about five years. I think I have a shot."

"Do you know what you want to do?" Dean asks, curious.

"Yeah. Visit her grave. Then try to be a good man. The man she thought she married."

"You're a better man than most of the guys in here," Dean says, not necessarily to compliment Daniel, but because it seems true. Funny to say that about a man who killed his wife, but then Dean's in here for rape and kidnapping. He's not one who should talk.

Daniel laughs. "I don't know about that. What would you do, if you ever got out?"

Dean blinks. "I won't. You know that. Multiple life sentences, basically." He sighs. "Then the death penalty case. The first one, anyway."

"Yeah. Sorry. I guess you wouldn't want to play what-if in that case."

But Dean is kind of supposed to be playing what-if. Reevaluate his moral decisions, right. "You ever think about how you would change the past?"

"God, every day," Daniel says wryly, and more than a little sadly. "You know, I went through a few years when I was glad I killed her. Because it made me able to hate her for being here, even though it was my fault. My doing. I guess that's what most of these guys do." He pauses. "Doesn't sound like it's what you do, though. Beating the shit out of someone who spoke about your – well, your guy."

"You think you can love someone, and hurt them at the same time?" Dean asks. He's suddenly deeply grateful they're both on their bunks, supposedly reading before lights-out, and that he doesn't have to look Daniel in the eye for this. He wouldn't be saying all this if he was.

Daniel doesn't answer for such a long time Dean thinks he's not going to. "Not enough. Goodnight, Dean."

* * *

To Dean's surprise, when he sees Dr. Merris again, he has an answer, if not a very good one. "I should have talked to him. By phone, or something, so he wouldn't arrest me. Or letters, or online on a message board, something."

"What do you think would have happened?" Dr. Merris asks. She never takes notes during the 'therapy' part of their sessions, and he kind of wonders why, but he doesn't ask. She just focuses on him completely.

"He'd have tried to track me down. But he'd have kept me going, to figure out where I was." Dean says softly, "I would have known him, without chaining him to my floor. Without me hurting him so badly."

"And why is that important, Dean?"

"Because …" Dean pauses. She wants him to spell it out, and he knows he has to. To make it real. "Because I should have made my decisions not based on what I was feeling. Pain."

"And would he have hated you for just communicating with him, and asking him to respond?"

Dean eyes fills with tears. He never said Cas hates him, but it's not a hard leap. "No. He wouldn't have."

"It would have been respecting his boundaries," Dr. Merris adds.

Dean nods, bowing his head to wipe his eyes. He's still chained up, though Dr. Merris said that if he continues to behave they could probably meet without those being necessary. "Yeah."

"If Castiel had rejected speaking to you, what would have been the appropriate course of action?"

"I know that," Dean says, irritated. "To let it go, of course."

Dr. Merris holds up a perfectly manicured hand. "Bear with me. The reason I ask is because I want you to take it a step farther than 'yeah, I know what I should have done' to 'what I could have done'."

Dean blinks. "But I could have –"

"Think about the distinction I'm making. Clearly you knew what was right and wrong, and you committed crimes anyway. I'm asking how you could have avoided that, acknowledging at the same time that doing so would be hard for you. Remember, we're focused on getting you to a mental place so you don't make the same mistakes in future relationships, or a relationship with Castiel in heaven. That means that if you were put in the same scenario, and you could kidnap Castiel again, how would you stop yourself?"

Dean sits back as much as possible, feeling a little stunned. "I get you."

"So what could you have done?"

Dean goes blank. "I don't know. Not offhand, anyway."

"You said you were in pain because you were lonely, correct? What would have been a healthy, moral way to connect to someone?"

Dean thinks. Then thinks some more. He's run into various hunters and pairs of hunters over the years. Some new to the business, some old, some wary of Dean Winchester, some who have never heard of him. Most gave him contact information. Dean knows himself well enough by now – especially after Lisa – that he could never really truly connect with someone who didn't know the truth about the world, and probably not even someone who knew, but didn't interact with it. Dean's life was too embedded in hunting. Even just having a friend, a real friend, would have made a difference. "Find someone –" Dean begins, and then stops, looking at Dr. Merris warily.

"Dean?"

"Find a hunter," Dean says finally.

"A hunter?" she asks.

"Someone who knows about the supernatural," Dean says, finally broaching the subject Dr. Merris hasn't – the hundreds of crimes seen as an extension of his psychosis.

But Dr. Merris nods. "All right. Someone like you, you mean."

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm not going to pretend that I think two people with the same delusions is something I would recommend, but I encourage the spirit of your realization."

Dean laughs. "You think I'm crazy, doc?"

"I think you have a deeply ingrained belief in the supernatural, a delusion that has taken over your life. But I'm not sure you're insane. Certainly not incompetent."

"Yeah, my lawyer wanted me to see a psych, see if I'm competent. But I don't see the point. I know you think it's wrong, what I do, even if I see monsters and you don't, so that's all that matters, right?"

"An insanity plea is determined at trial, but competency is just the ability to go through criminal proceedings," Dr. Merris corrects. "I'd say you know perfectly well the seriousness of the charges against you. But as far as an insanity plea, I don't know. We haven't discussed that part of your life, and you may not want to since the prosecution may be interested in our conversations."

Dean tilts his head. "If I'm crazy, do you think it's worth trying to treat me for my unhealthy relationship skills?"

"Of course. While I study the criminal mind in order to better catch criminals, I also strongly believe that a major goal of any psychologist should be to ease suffering and provide mental balance. Even for you."

Cas would probably agree with her. Based on the fact that that's just what he did, trying not just to get Dean to see what he did to Cas and why, but also to change it. He didn't want Dean to suffer, just to see the truth. Dean remembers Cas telling him to go to bed, offering glimpses of comfort when he had no reason to do that. Cas didn't even want him in prison, even if Dean thinks Cas is really relieved that's where Dean is now. "Okay," he says finally.

* * *

Jerking off isn't easy in prison. Well, not easy to do in private, anyway. Dean's sex drive hasn't disappeared, though he wishes it had.

Dean is ashamed of it, but he still thinks about Cas when he masturbates, late at night when he's sure Daniel is asleep.

He shoves his left hand into his mouth, biting down hard enough to hurt, and then takes out his half-hard cock with his right. He strokes slow, doesn't move his hips, and has the bottom corner of his sheet ready to catch the mess. He thinks about Cas's skin, how soft it was between his thighs, or the inside of his arm, or the sweet, vulnerable spot between his thigh and groin that Dean ever only saw and touched and tasted when Cas had his legs spread open. He remembers the curve of Cas's waist when he slept on his side, providing a perfect spot for Dean's arm to lay curled around him, providing a perfect opening to cradle his soft cock as he slept, stroking gently until Cas was hard and awake. Cas's cock was like velvet in his mouth, so beautiful whether he was aroused or not.

He remembers how Cas would come up to him and peck him lightly on the lips, or how he would give Dean a long, thorough kiss before turning over in bed and falling asleep. He remembers that Cas's lips were often chapped, but he never remembered to put chapstick on. He strokes himself while thinking about how Cas would walk from the bedroom to the bathroom every morning, casual in his nudity. He remembers the tone of Cas's voice when he would say, 'I love you.'

Or 'fuck me.' Dean's fingers in Cas's ass, spreading him open and getting him ready for Dean's cock. The way Cas would tilt his hips forward, presenting himself, and Dean would slide right in. Cas always felt like perfection, so hot and tight. The slap of Dean's balls meeting Cas's ass while Cas moaned, his hard cock jerking every time Dean hit his prostate. The way he would wait for Dean, just because he knew how Dean loved to make Cas come just by fucking him. Knowing he was the only one to ever have this part of Cas, his legs spread, taking every thrust Dean gave him.

Dean comes into his hand, biting down hard enough to almost draw blood. Semen spills over his fingers in the darkness of the cell. He wipes himself down with the sheet so there's no semen everywhere the next morning, and lets the shame in.

Sometimes in Dean's meandering sexual thoughts, he remembers how Cas cried the first sexual encounter they had. The panic on Cas's face, after he came in Dean's mouth for the first time. The first time Dean fucked his ass, even, because even though Cas didn't panic and was very relaxed afterwards, it strikes him now how obsessed he was with anal sex, with Cas in particular. Because Cas was straight, and Dean over eighteen months of imprisonment shaped his sexuality so thoroughly that a man who never gave sex with another man a thought spread his legs and took it.

Tears leak out of Dean's eyes, killing the post-orgasm relaxation.

He still wants Cas. His body, his mind, his heart, and no matter how much he denies himself, eventually Dean becomes weak and puts his hand to his cock, and Cas is all he can think about.

* * *

"Do you think hating yourself is a good way to change?" Dean asks Dr. Merris.

"Do you hate yourself, Dean?"

Dean shrugs, wanting an answer to his question, not an examination of why he wants it.

Dr. Merris eyes him for a few seconds. "Loss of self-esteem when a non pro-social action is taken is a healthy response. When we do something wrong, we should feel bad about it. But I don't think self-hatred is going to make you less likely to hurt Castiel, Dean."

Dean mulls that over. "But hating myself is how I keep going. In here." He waves at the prison.

"I think there are better ways of coping, less damaging to you and potentially those around you. Do you think Castiel would want you to suffer?"

Dean doesn't answer.

* * *

Dean is on trial for a skinwalker's kills. Ironically, he's also being charged with the skinwalker's death, since he shot the thing when it was in dog form, and it reverted to 'unknown male.' He's rather curious to see what they think he did with the hearts he supposedly tore out of seven people's chests. Eat them? That's really … really gross. But it turns out that Dean will have to wait for the answer to that, because the trial gets delayed again. Something about choosing a jury in a death penalty case, Dean wasn't paying too closely to the details. He's been in prison four months, waiting it out with Daniel as his cellmate.

"Is it bad I'm bored?" Dean asks, staring at the cell ceiling.

"Well, it's not good, but it's not weird either," Daniel says, sounding sleepy.

A guard shouts, "LIGHTS OUT!" And the cell block goes dark.

Dean turns over. "I mean, I kind of just want things to hurry up. The trial, death row, the needle," he whispers.

"You suicidal, dude?"

Dean sighs. "Not really. Just bored."

So far there hasn't been a monster to kill in prison. Well. Not the non-human kind, and Dean's done breaking the law because he feels like it.

Daniel snorts. "Get used to it."

Dean misses hunting. He'd resigned himself to not doing it when he turned himself in. And frankly, even though he could probably have continued to save lives, he's also a danger. Maybe less of one now, with Dr. Merris in his head, pulling out the pieces that Dean just couldn't do himself and showing him how he did it – how he found his soulmate, and tortured him instead of loved him. Dean went from one wild, little-thought-out plan to another. First, to see Cas. Then, to take him. And then, to keep him, with all the weird justifications and excuses and plain old putting himself first. He scrambled from situation to situation without allowing himself to think too much about what he was doing, blindly reacting to Cas's trauma and begging for freedom. Even when he admitted to himself how much he was hurting Cas, it never went further than that.

He's learning how to stop the thought before it gets there. How to stop the justification before he has it.

For years, Dean's been fucked up. That he did some good was always something that kept him going, kept him alive. Sam was good. When he lost Sam, he had hunting. When he found Cas, he turned all of that to shit – hunting not because it was good, but to tell himself he had earned Cas, like you can earn the right to kidnap and fucking own a human being.

When Dean jerks off and he begins to think about how good it felt to be inside of Cas in more than the physical sense, that feeling of possessiveness and ownership, makes him so sick that he can't finish himself off. A good erection killer, even if sex with Cas wasn't always about that.

When he thinks about how it turned Cas on, Dean wanting him so desperately, he just feels confused. Did he do that? Did Cas like it, on some level? What does that say about Cas, and what he did to Cas?

It's not something he wants to end up in the public record, though, so he doesn't talk about it. Doesn't talk about sex at all, actually, or raping Cas.

It took a long time to occur to Dean how fucking awful it must have been for Cas to be a law enforcement officer and a rape victim. A male rape victim. Cas had nothing but respect for the BAU, so he kind of figures Cas is safe there, but even as someone on the outside, or on the other side of the law, he knows that there's a lot of machismo and that kind of bullshit in the cop world. Gay cops aren't exactly springing out of the woodwork, either. Dean didn't just destroy Cas, he also destroyed Cas's reputation.

He doesn't regret admitting to the rapes, though. He knew, from talking to Cas, that it was already out. Everyone knew. Maybe now that all that is done with, Cas will have an easier time moving on.

Cas has another thirty or forty years to live. Dean somehow thinks that Cas will be strong, just like always has been, and will leave Dean behind and be happy.

* * *

Daniel is escorted back to their cell. He's grinning, and just looks up at Dean.

"Hey, I heard. Congrats," Dean says.

Daniel nods at him, bouncing around the cell light-footed. "Thanks. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do out there, and thinking about how to find a job while being an ex-con on parole, well, it's gonna be interesting. But I'm looking forward to sunlight. You know?"

Dean nods. "Yeah." He doesn't say Daniel's earned it. You don't come back from things like murdering an innocent person and 'earn' something. But maybe you get something anyway. "Good luck."

"Good luck, Dean."

* * *

A month later, Dean's officially on death row. The jury wouldn't look him in the eye during the whole trial.

* * *

Death row is solitary.

He's taken out of his cell, alone, for a shower twice a week. This particular prison has a very small yard for death row inmates, so he can go outside for half an hour a day. He reads obsessively, writes even more obsessively. (Some of it is in a code that Sam developed. He writes about hunting and about the real truth behind mythology. Having met a god or two makes him qualified, he thinks.)

The isolation makes sense, of course. If you're heading for the needle, there's no point in cooperating with the guards. And most people on death row are pretty much evil down to the bone. Dean doesn't see them, though. He's kept in his cell twenty-three hours a day.

The isolation drives Dean a little crazy, but he's allowed to read a lot. And it gives him time to think about Cas. He's still sorting things out, but he thinks maybe when he feels ready to face the afterlife, to face Sam and Cas, he'll ask his attorney to waive his appeals. He gets a letter from Daniel.

Dr. Merris is the one bit of human interaction he gets regularly. He finds himself craving it.

He also finds himself realizing just how fucked up it was to leave Cas alone for two weeks on that first hunt. No wonder Cas lashed out at him, and listed the isolation Dean put him in as one of his worst crimes. Dean really gets it now, on a gut level. He also gets why serial killers on death row talk to psychologists. It really is about the boredom and need for human interaction. He guesses even psychos need someone to talk to. After all, Dean half-qualifies.

Dr. Merris helps him figure out that a lot of his issues do actually come back to Dad. His fear of not being loved, or not being loved enough. Dad loved him, Dad died for him, but Dean just feels guilt over that, instead of a confidence deep in his bones about why Dad did it. It probably doesn't help that Dad's last words were about killing Sam. Dean lived because Dean had a job to do. Maybe even one Dad couldn't do.

When Cas said he wouldn't turn Dean in, that Dean could let Cas go and they could continue to meet, Dean said no. Dean knows now that the reason he said no was because at the same he craved Cas's love, he also didn't believe it. Not really.

The funny thing is, he was right.

Cas doesn't love Dean. Dean is pretty sure – no, Dean knows that Cas cares about him. Probably even a lot. The man did let his kidnapper and rapist go, and even went so far as to offer unconventional therapy. Most people would've rather put a bullet in Dean's head. But if there's love there, it's not the romantic kind. It's the selfless kind, the kind of love Sam had for people. Dean loved saving lives. He's not sure he ever loved those lives just for being human.

Maybe that was part, combined with hell, of how he was able to set aside what most call basic humanity and do what he did. Every day he suffers in prison, he reminds himself why. He reminds himself 'This was the thought that put you here' and then he puts that thought away. He spent a lot of time talking to Daniel, practicing.

He's come to terms with the fact that Cas doesn't love him, as much as it hurts. He ruined whatever he could have had with Cas. He can love Cas, and love Cas, and it's okay that Cas doesn't feel the same desperate, clawing thing that rips into Dean's heart.

Dean wants Cas to be happy.

Dr. Merris wants to focus again on Dean's criminal history. Now that the trial is over and he's on death row, there's doubly so no reason not to talk about it. Dean has an interesting time leaving out details and information that could potentially be used against other hunters, but he tells her enough that she thinks he's crazy. He tells her about Sam saving the world, and then dying to close the gates of hell. He tells her all the details of a few cases he's sure won't cause problems, and that seems to satisfy a lot of her intellectual cravings.

Funny thing about Dr. Merris. The darkness in people interests her a lot more than the average human mind. He wonders if she knew the truth, if she'd feel so secure in understanding the mind of a demon. Not Dean. No, he's not that far gone with his self-esteem, though he has to admit he might end up as one someday. But he thinks she's rarely seen true evil, a demon before hell even gets a grip.

One day, he asks, "So was all that time you spent on giving therapy to a walking dead man worth it?"

He's not asking in the emotional sense, and she seems to know it. "You have a fascinating mind, Dean. And all your attempts to ready yourself for someone you love have told me a lot about who you are. It tells me what kind of person you are. What morals you have."

Dean blinks, slowly, at his uncuffed hands. "Will I hurt him?"

"The only person who can control you is you."

* * *

Dean's woken out of a dead sleep by a female voice saying his name. "Dean."

He opens his eyes. The cell is mostly dark, but there's enough light for him to immediately make out who's in here with him – Anna. Her red hair glows faintly in the dim light, and she's standing in the middle of his cell with her usual super-correct posture, not quite human in how she moves her body. He stares at her, wondering if he's hallucinating. He hasn't been praying to her, asking her to stay away, but it's been almost a year. What is she doing here? Is she here, and he's finally snapped?

"Castiel sent me," Anna says.

Dean can hear the guy in the next cell getting up. Castiel? Surely he's hallucinating, then. "Are you real?"

She tilts her head, looking irritated. Then she taps him on the forehead, and the prison disappears.

He's somewhere dark, but large. And familiar. He's on a cold, hard floor, but it's not concrete, it's old and worn wood. A light turns on, and he realizes where he is – the bunker library, sitting on his ass. The two desks that Sam and Dean primarily used are a few feet away. Bookcases wind around the rest of the room. It's cold, and he imagines the heat is still off, because he left the power plant running but on minimal power. Anna is standing by the light switch.

"I'm quite real," Anna says.

Dean scrambles to his feet, the tough texture of his prison jumpsuit finally feeling odd after nearly a year of wearing it. "Cas? Uh, Cas, Cas sent you?"

Anna nods. "He assured me that if your release was on his orders, you would not object."

Dean blinks. He doesn't know what to think. What to feel. "Why?"

"He said he needed a hunter, and that you would be one for him."

Dean straightens. This makes – makes sense. A reason, a purpose, a floor to hold onto. "A case? He has a case for me? What is it?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

"He banished me."

Dean laughs, unable to help himself, and then stops himself at Anna's glower. "I didn't teach him how," he says defensively.

Anna stares at him for a moment. "Do you want me to take you back? The prison has been alerted to my presence, since it took me time to find you, but they have not yet searched your cell."

Does he? Want to go back? In one sense, yes, he still feels like he deserves to be in prison, ten to fifteen years from his death sentence. It was lonely and miserable, but prison's to punish as much as anything else, and God knows Dean deserves to be punished. And yet. If Cas asked Anna to get him out, he either feels that Dean doesn't deserve prison – which is something Cas said before, even if Dean isn't sure he meant it or still would – or the situation is dire enough he needs Dean's help, and doesn't have someone else to go to. Dean left a list of hunters he might be able to use in the bunker, but Dean somehow doubts Cas has been here. "No. If Cas asked for me … then no."

Anna nods slowly. "He had one last message for you. He said to follow your brother's protocol where he lives, and he'll find you."

Second hotel in the phone book, last room. "When did he tell you that?"

"An hour ago."

Then Dean has some time. Cas, knowing Anna's habits, won't expect him to arrive very soon. He looks up. "Anna – thanks."

For the first time, soft concern frames Anna's usually stern face. "Dean. You didn't want this. You prayed to me for weeks, asking me not to come for you."

Dean shrugs helplessly, folding his arms around himself. He needs to turn the heater on. "It's Cas."

"Then pray to me if you have need." And Anna disappears.

Dean stares at the empty bunker, swallows, and then heads upstairs. He flicks on lights as he goes. When he passes the kitchen, he sees the second set of the Impala's keys still waiting on the table, exactly as he left them. He'd had one with him when arrested, just in case Cas wanted them – Dean left everything here for Cas, if he wanted any of it. Baby is here, of course, and probably has a dead battery. Next to it is a photo, but Dean doesn't turn it over. His fingertips brush the blank back, proof that Cas was never here. Dean goes into the power plant, switches it from standby to full use. He checks all the lines and protections, all the locked doors. None of it has been breached. The Men of Letters built to last, and one piddly year isn't enough to wear down one of their last hideouts.

Dean goes to his bedroom. Dust is visible on the sheets, but everything is untouched. He visits the bedroom he shared with Cas next, and sees the slightly rumpled sheets he'd left. Nothing smells like Cas, of course, but he sits down anyway, remembering.

He turns a pillow over, and lays down on the soft bed. And, uncertain as to why, he weeps. And when he's empty, he falls asleep.

Dawn doesn't come with the sun, of course, not underground. Dean wakes up with the vague sense it's morning, and checks a clock that's still ticking. It's after nine.

He eats a can of beans for breakfast, changes out of his prison jumpsuit, and heads out to Cas's garden.

Blinding sunlight is the first thing he sees. The second is green.

Before he left, he set up an automatic watering system connected to the bunker's well. It appears to have worked, because Cas's garden is overgrown but still alive. The gently sloping lines that Cas spent so much digging out and creating are still here, though weeds have grown in between the paving stones. Cas's sitting rock, which was from before Cas's garden, still sits in its spot, weathering the year without any change. Dean smiles at it, sits down on its slowly warming surface. Some of the plants are blooming, yellows and reds.

Cas told him he liked the colors of fall.

Carefully, slowly, Dean mentally unpacks what he's been told. Cas asked Anna to get Dean out of prison, because he needed a hunter. He gave directions, so they could meet. Presumably in person.

Dean thought he'd be dead before he saw Cas in person again.

He blinks rapidly, rubs his face, and gets himself back on track. Okay. So Cas needs help. Statistically, the average police station's likelihood of encountering a supernatural case is pretty low. There's a reason Sam and Dean traveled all over the continental United States, looking for hunts. But Cas is working for the BAU, which basically covers really weird cases with multiple corpses, all over the country. He's betting Cas stumbled across a case, and he couldn't handle it – not even necessarily because Cas isn't enough of a hunter, but probably because he can't exactly go off, ask really weird questions, kill the thing, and then disappear into the night.

After all the trouble the Winchester brothers gave the hunting community, Dean's not exactly locked into it. He has a few hunters he could call and ask questions, maybe, if those numbers still work. Hunters were just as likely to leave without even saying a word to Sam and Dean, if they stumbled upon a case already being worked.

But Dean will start there. Maybe this is a multiple-area case. That'd be equally difficult for Cas to deal with, while not alerting the rest of his team to what he's doing.

It suddenly hits Dean that he, without asking or considering the consequences, brought Cas into the world of the supernatural, forever burdening him with the knowledge that gets people killed or fired.

"You're so fucking stupid," Dean tells himself. He buries his face in his hands, shame working through him. Then he looks up, into the gentle hills of Kansas. He wonders why Cas never accused him of ruining his life in that way. It would've been fair.

Dean grimaces. "Fuck."

He resolves to tend to Cas's garden a little later. For the ten months or so between Cas's escape and Dean turning himself in, he'd made sure that Cas's garden survived, exactly as Cas left it. Things grew. Dean had to go online and figure out what the plants were, go through Cas's notes and figure out when to trim, when to weed, all that stuff. Even his time with Lisa didn't prepare him for the depth of Cas's gardening obsession, but his detailed notes gave Dean everything he needed.

Inside, he checks Baby – her battery is dead, like he expected, but he also changes her oil and sparkplugs, checks the belt, all that good stuff. She'll run, once he replaces the battery. He does a thorough inventory of all his weapons, cleaning and maintaining them, then reorganizes the Impala's trunk so he'll have everything he could possibly need to help Cas.

He doesn't eat beans for lunch. No thanks, he doesn't want that much gas. He ends up eating canned pineapple instead.

After lunch, he heads back to Cas's garden and pulls weeds. Dumps some plant food, though he's careful not to overfeed. By dinner, he grabs the first thing he sees out of the pantry and eats it. It turns out to be cranberry sauce.

He collapses in bed, exhausted.

* * *

He wakes up. He lies in bed for almost ten minutes, slowly letting his mind rouse with his body. Three months on death row made him used to being in a small, confined space, and now that he has a hell of a lot more room, it almost feels like he has too much space.

On another level, he's enjoying it. He gets up, takes another shower – one every day, he promises himself – and then investigates the pantry again. This time, he finds chili, but he ends up eating tomato soup for breakfast. He finds a chunk of cheese in the industrial freezer and sets it out to defrost for lunch. He smiles at it. He misses overloading everything with cheese. He cleans the dusty kitchen, reacquaints himself with everything there.

What if Cas wants him to back, after Dean is done?

He freezes in the middle of cleaning a bowl.

Panic wants to rise up, but Dean stifles it with ruthless practice. If Cas wants that, then Dean has to give it to him. And he might. He stated before he didn't want Dean in prison, but that was before Dean was there, and Cas could live in relative comfort knowing that Dean couldn't find him and attack him in his apartment. Of course there's Anna, and Cas would have to believe Dean wouldn't ask her for help to really feel that comfortable, so there's some degree of trust there regardless. Right? It's not exactly like Cas could do anything about that, but Cas got a lot better and seemed to feel safe from Dean while they were talking on the phone, once Dean admitted his crimes.

Cas needs help. Cas is willing to interact with Dean, probably in person, based on his instructions. Dean has a chance to do this right.

And if he does it right, if he puts all that practice that Dr. Merris gave into the real world, what will happen?

Cas might look him in the eye without fear or hatred.

Dean puts the bowl down, purposefully relaxing his body, even if he can't manage the same with his mind. He read a book on meditation. It helped a lot in prison, and he uses it now.

He loves Cas. Cas doesn't love him, but he cares about him. If Dean can have the smallest part of Cas, he'll take it, as long as he doesn't feel himself drifting into old patterns. If he does, he warns Cas. He gives Cas all the help he can, without putting Cas in danger from Dean.

Maybe he'll get to see Cas smile.

Dean's not going to repeat the same mistakes.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** Still hopeful to get this done before baby comes, but I can't guarantee it.

 **Warnings (spoilers!):** Discussion of rape and dub-con. A flashback. Violence, on par with the show. Death of original characters, including children.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY

"Lay it out."

Castiel looks up from his duffel bag, watching Morgan standing there next to the hotel room desk, vibrating like a violin string. Castiel isn't imitating him only because he's too tired. "We've only got two hours until the plane leaves and we're home, and somehow I don't think that's going to be long enough."

A muscle in Morgan's jaw jumps. "You've got to know what's going through my mind right now."

Castiel softens. "I do, yes. But trust me, having the chance to ask questions and think about it helps." Suits that don't wrinkle are one of the treasures of any FBI agent. Castiel shoves another suit in, and zips up. "Are monsters real? Yes. Are you likely to run into one? Not really. Should you take precautions? Well, I do, and I'll teach you which ones you need. How do you tell what's real and what's bullshit?" Castiel shrugs. "Practice."

Morgan snorts. "I'm comforted."

"This isn't a comfortable truth," Castiel says, though he wonders if there are any that are. "Look. Don't freak out. Most of the world _hasn't_ changed."

Morgan slowly sits on his hotel bed. He doesn't say anything for several long minutes while Castiel double-checks he's not leaving anything important behind. He's spent a fortune on cell phone chargers. "Castiel. Were the Winchesters guilty?"

Castiel doesn't look up, because he can't quite face Morgan at this moment. He's been expecting this question through the brief explanation he gave at the hospital about the creature he killed, through explaining the vampire case, through admitting the one other case he'd solved on his own. 'Have you done this before?' threw him, for some reason. Getting through that explanation cost him half an hour, and by then the rest of the team came back and wanted to debrief. The case was over, since their suspect was found, even if a complete explanation is lacking. "No. Not of anything we were after them for, at least."

"Fuck." Morgan gets up, paces. "Fuck!"

There's a knock on the door.

Castiel gives Morgan one last look. Morgan's still agitated, but he takes a deep breath and nods at Castiel. He won't lose it in front of anyone else. Castiel's grateful, in some ways, that Morgan was the one to find him. Morgan always had a strong practical streak. Castiel opens the door to find JJ there, a rolling suitcase behind her. "You guys ready?" she asks. "Hotch wants to get home early."

Morgan zips shut his duffel bag. He looks calm and in control. "Yep."

* * *

"Ghosts?"

"Real."

"Shapeshifters?"

"Only seen ones that do so as dogs. Werewolves just get claws and teeth and strength on a full moon, but otherwise appear pretty human."

"… Djinns?"

"Real. But they only give you the illusion of your wish before they kill you."

"Banshees?"

"Real."

"Poltergeists?"

"Real."

"Aliens?"

"Not that I know of. They can be confused with fairies, however."

"Dragons?" Morgan sounds thoroughly confused now.

"Extinct, so I hear."

"Chupacubra?"

"Real."

"Demons?"

"Real, though no longer a problem."

Morgan blinks at that. "Why?"

Castiel gets another beer from the case he bought the night before Morgan came over to his apartment. It's cold. Castiel likes to be prepared. He settles back into his armchair, having let Morgan sprawl across his couch. "Long story, but there was a tablet that had a spell on it for closing the gates of hell. Sam completed the spell and died in the process. So demons are trapped in hell and can't escape to cause havoc, like they used to be able to."

Blank stare. "I need to be drunker for this."

Castiel grabs yet another beer, and hands it to Morgan this time. Morgan is wearing t-shirt and jeans, and they're both not on call. Morgan keeps staring at Castiel's art photography, still hiding enochian sigils, in between asking question after question.

"Sam Winchester saved the world from demons, is what you're saying."

Castiel takes a swig. "Yes. And started Dean's downward spiral."

"And you knew this. The whole time?" Morgan asks, a horrified realization sweeping across his face.

Perhaps he's finally gotten it. Understood that from the moment that Castiel escaped, he had to lie, often and repeatedly, to the very same people so desperate to help him. Even Castiel's therapist wasn't a safe haven. Maybe now Morgan could understand why Castiel spoke to Dean after his escape, but Castiel isn't quite willing to test that. He doesn't know if Anna has released Dean yet; he hasn't heard anything, and he's terrified of checking using his own credentials. And asking Morgan would be admitting guilt, near as, though Morgan's going to figure it out anyway – Castiel is kind of fucked. He didn't think that part through when he prayed to Anna, that's for damn sure. "Since early on in my captivity. Yes."

"But Winchester is guilty of his crimes against you," Morgan says, not quite a question.

Castiel nods. "He is."

Morgan looks away. "But before that, we hunted an innocent man. Two innocent men, just trying to save people from dying to monsters no one else knows exists."

"Dean was raised to it, as was Sam. But I think Dean was more damaged by that kind of upbringing, because he took the brunt of it as the older brother, the caretaker. I know that Dean committed crimes against me – and certainly others, like credit card fraud, assault, and other things in the course of hunting. He's killed – people. Human beings. He admitted as much to me, though it was in scenarios he couldn't precisely claim self defense, not to a normal jury anyway. But Dean was struggling against an uphill battle that no one else knew he was even fighting."

"He's not evil. That's what you said to us," Morgan says softly, looking up.

"And I still believe that to be true," Castiel says, equally softly. "There's – there's more. Than just Sam and the tablet. Those two brothers saved us more than once, Morgan."

Morgan doesn't reply for a long moment. "I want not to believe you. That it goes that far. But it does, doesn't it?"

Castiel nods silently.

"In a way, I feel like I don't want to know. Even though it's our duty to always follow the truth."

Castiel shrugs, carefully casual. "There's a rule, of sorts, in the hunting community, not to expose people to the supernatural without having to do so. Because it does destroy lives and breaks people." He pauses. "I didn't want this burden for you. That's why I didn't tell you."

Morgan jaw clenches, but he doesn't disagree. Instead, he asks, "How many know about the supernatural?"

"Impossible to estimate, especially on a global basis, especially if you're asking about those who know and do little but protect themselves as well as those that take an active role. But I figure there are probably a few hundred hunters – that's what they call themselves – active in the United States."

Morgan snorts. "And how many are hunted as serial killers?"

Castiel half smiles. "Not that many. Dean and Sam were fairly unlucky, and they dealt with cases that spread across states or country lines."

"How could we not know?"

Castiel clears his throat. "Well, near as I can figure out, there was a fairly long period of dormancy coinciding with the Renaissance. At the same we were putting myths away, the myths were actually going away. Pagan gods in particular lost power, since they need followers. A lot of lesser stuff followed. But there's always been a certain supernatural activity, and most areas in the world – as we know – people still follow precautions. Milk to appease brownies, salt at the windows when a ghost is after you. Hunting is a bit harder in America," Castiel adds wryly. "We're the land of skeptics. It's easy to for people today to rationalize what they see, or to declare it a hoax. Even the vampire case in Wyoming, the immediate conclusion everyone came to was prosthetics over their teeth. And you accepted my explanation of bullet-proof vests pretty easily."

"It was the only thing that made sense," and the words are like an objection, but the tone is thoughtful. "How many innocent people did we put in prison?"

Castiel wondered that himself. He'd gone over the year of cases prior to Dean kidnapping him, and found only two possibilities. "I don't know. Only two of the cases I worked prior to – prior to Dean, were questionable, in the light of the new information I had."

"How the hell am I going to go back to work?" Morgan asks, staring at Castiel. "I'm going to be seeing bogeymen around every corner."

"Well, you're not alone," Castiel points out. "If I think something is suspicious, we can work through it together. And like I said, it's been relatively rare. Only the vampire case isn't closed." Castiel pauses. "I did contact a hunter, anonymously, for help with that case. But he stopped answering my calls, so I suspect he's dead."

"We can't leave it alone, then," Morgan says, not really firmly, just matter-of-factly. "This is our job, Castiel. Hunting monsters and saving lives. Me knowing that some of them aren't human doesn't change that."

Castiel looks at him for a moment, and then laughs.

"What?"

"I had the same reaction," Castiel admits. "Eventually. I could be angry at Dean for bringing me into this world, one where the supernatural is real, but closing my eyes to save myself was never something I could bring myself to do. But. We do need to be careful. Losing our lives, or our jobs, isn't going to help anyone."

Morgan closes his eyes and then puts his hand over his face. "Dammit. The things I've said to Hotch."

"Were all unprovable. I'm not worried about that."

"Castiel –"

"Don't back down," Castiel interrupts. "It'll look suspicious, and if he thinks you're watching me, he won't feel the need to do it himself."

"You've thought this through."

Castiel waves his hand, still holding his beer, just smiling. He has. He didn't seriously think that any of the team would find out about the supernatural, and definitely not Morgan, but he went through the possibilities. Planning for all eventualities is something Castiel has to do since the moment he walked into that police station, a cuff still on his ankle. He wanted his job, his life, and he knew he would have to fight to keep it, and on more than one level. "There's one more thing, Morgan."

"Yeah?"

"You're going to be a father."

Morgan smiles on reflex, but then says warily, "Yeah."

"Hunting is dangerous, even with the unknowing backing of the FBI. Let me take the risks, okay? I know more about what I'm doing than you. I know you're senior to me, but not in this." Castiel keeps his tone low and serious.

Morgan hesitates, but then nods his acquiescence.

"Is she expecting you home?" Castiel asks. "I don't know about you, but I feel the need to collapse on a bed. Do you want me to call you a cab?"

Morgan shakes his head. "She's with her parents for the weekend. And I've got more questions to ask, when the hangover fades."

Castiel laughs. As unfortunate as it is that Morgan's world has irrevocably changed, he's happy to have his friend back. To be able to tell the whole truth to someone, if only one person. "I've got a guest bedroom. Clean sheets. Well, I can put on clean sheets."

"Sounds good," Morgan says, rubbing his eyes.

Castiel makes the bed and finds an extra blanket in his closet. He watches Morgan stare at the bed for a long second, noticing how tired Morgan looks. It's not really physical, though alcohol is a depressant. It's a psychological tiredness, from his mind being stretched and forced to accept an entirely new reality. It's been two days. Castiel had the cuff, and then the slow realization, but Morgan was forced into it all at once. "Good night, Morgan." He turns to go to his own bedroom.

"Castiel, before you go."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

Castiel freezes in his doorway. "For what?" he asks, genuinely puzzled.

"You went through all this alone. And I'm sorry we weren't there for you, not completely." Morgan is studying him, but the apology is there in his eyes.

"Don't be. You saved me. You all did." Castiel smiles sadly. "If I had to keep a few secrets, I survived, and that's what matters."

* * *

"Castiel. Wake up right now!"

Castiel's pillow disappears from beneath his head and he groans loudly as the world swims, even with his eyes closed. "What."

"Dean Winchester escaped from death row in a supermax prison last night. A red-haired woman was seen wandering the halls on security tapes. This was you, wasn't it?"

Castiel opens his eyes to Morgan's infuriated face. Aditi doesn't help by jumping up on the bed and licking Castiel's face. He groans again and blindly shoves her off. She whines but cooperates. He sighs, long and deep, but Morgan just waits. "I wanted time to ease you into the idea of going to Dean for help. I didn't think Anna would act that quickly."

"Who is Anna? The red-haired woman? What is she?"

"One that you forgot to ask about on your list." Castiel grimaces, partially for what he's about to say, and partially because he can smell his own morning breath. "She's an angel. Though I wouldn't get too excited about that if I were you – angels are frequently dicks with wings. Powerful dicks with wings," he amends. "She flew in and grabbed him. Literally."

Several fast calculations cross Morgan's face. "She knew Winchester was holding you prisoner."

"And did nothing," Castiel confirms. "Can I wash out my mouth and have some coffee for the rest of this discussion?"

"As long as we have it," Morgan warns.

"I promise."

Morgan walks out without another word, not looking back. Castiel lets his head fall against the mattress. Aditi starts whining again, and Castiel figures he's got to let her out to do her business. He rinses his mouth, shoves on sweats and sneakers without socks, and takes care of Aditi. He toes off the sneakers after and pauses in his living room.

Why did Anna have to work quickly _this_ time?

Castiel decides to start out with his strongest point. He sits at the kitchen table, watching Morgan make coffee in his cramped kitchen. The pot that held Dean's cell phone sits on top of the fridge, empty now. "We need him. Neither of us are really hunters, neither of us have the necessary connections or supplies to take on a huge supernatural case like the vampire nests, and he's done this before. Countless times. For all I know he was already working the case, because that's what the Winchester brothers did: worked the big cases."

Morgan doesn't ask the question Castiel is expecting. "So, angels?"

"Uh, yes. Angels and demons."

Morgan sets a coffee mug in front of Castiel. "You said the Winchesters brothers did a lot more. If Dean has one as a friend, I'm assuming there's a reason."

Castiel takes a deep breath, and starts explaining about angels requiring vessels. He backtracks to Mary Winchester from there, and how the fallout of her death affected both Sam and Dean. When he gets to Dean going to hell, Morgan is looking at him doubtfully. And he's not even gotten to the part about Lucifer yet. In fact, when Castiel does get to that point, Morgan actually snorts, though he doesn't interrupt. The explanation of Sam's fall into hell has him quiet, though, as does his eventual release. For the sake of Morgan's sanity, he doesn't explain how _that_ happened.

"And you're sure it's all real?"

"Anna – I don't know precisely how to describe it." Castiel frowns, feeling frustrated. "But she brought back to watch those events as they happened. Dean asked her to help me understand. And that's how she did it – she showed me, Morgan. And I know that I'm asking you to believe a lot, but just like you saw that monster in that warehouse, I saw it, and I knew it was real."

"But it's not confirmation."

"The other hunter I spoke to believed it," Castiel says.

"And now Dean is out." Morgan finishes his coffee. "You were planning on meeting him alone?"

Castiel hesitates, sure he's walking into a trap, but admits, "Yes."

"For such a smart guy, Castiel, sometimes you're a moron."

Castiel blinks at him, too hungover to feel insulted.

"I know the truth about Dean. I can even restrain myself from arresting him, because you're right, we do need him. But you were going to go, by yourself, to a man who kidnapped you, held you prisoner for eighteen months, and at the very least coerced you into sex? That guy? He might have saved a few hundred people or the whole fucking world for all I care, but you going near him is stupid, Castiel. Stupid. He's damaged, at the very least, and maybe irreparably. And it's especially moronic since you have another option – me."

Castiel chooses to look at the table for his next words. "I want to see him."

Morgan slams his hand onto the table, making Castiel jump and look up. But Morgan's expression is pleading, not angry. "Don't do this to yourself."

"Morgan … I have to. It's not as simple as that, you know that." He stares at Morgan, willing to him to understand.

"Maybe he's not the devil incarnate –" Morgan winces, but keeps going, "but he's still not a safe person for you. I'd be saying the same thing to the spouse of a war hero."

The comparison is almost amusing, if nothing else for the near acknowledgement for how deep Castiel and Dean's relationship went, as fucked up as it was.

"It makes sense to me now why you're so fucked up over him. You really do think he's a hero, don't you?"

"Isn't he?" Castiel asks simply.

Morgan frowns.

"Dean is damaged, probably irreparably, but I don't want to give up on him, Morgan. Please understand that."

Morgan taps the table. Then says, "You said we would be partners. That includes in this, if you're really telling me you got him out to help us."

Okay, that's underhanded. And Castiel can't really deny it. "Yes," he sighs.

Morgan, thankfully, doesn't relish in his triumph. He just asks, "So where's the meet?"

* * *

Bernard's Motel is about typical for what Dean described as a typical Winchester haunt. Run down and somewhat quirky, with a canine theme. Just to have a reason to be there, Castiel gets a room and pays cash, putting down a false name. The manager, who lives in an attached apartment, doesn't even ask for his ID. Castiel wonders what he thinks of two men in suits getting a single motel bed, but doesn't mention it to Morgan.

The last room was already rented. Castiel insisted on waiting four days before attempting to make the meet, because he didn't know how long it would take Dean to arrive, or even where Anna put him after she took him from his cell.

"You look nervous."

Castiel looks at Morgan, and says, "You think?"

It's the wrong response, because Morgan's hand on the strap of his messenger bag tightens. Surprisingly, he doesn't check his holster. "I can go." His mouth twitches. "He's not a killer, right? Then he won't shoot on sight."

"No, but he might run. Morgan, I'll be fine. Really."

"I don't trust him," Morgan says, which is odd because he said he didn't think Dean would shoot before asking questions. "Around you," he adds.

Castiel looks down, then at the far end of the motel. "You weren't wrong, Morgan. I was talking to him for nearly eight months before he turned himself in." And he missed Dean after. The fact that he was able to move on doesn't change that. "Dean is damaged, but he's not going to hurt me."

Morgan lets out a breath that's almost a groan. But to Castiel's surprise, he doesn't address this latest revelation. "Let's go."

Morgan does as Castiel requested previously and stays about twenty feet back and out of sight when Castiel goes to the door. The number 146 is faded. Castiel is shaking, just a bit, and is glad Morgan is far enough away not to see it.

Dean answers the door.

He looks only a little different from the last Castiel saw him. Just as thin, whipcord strong, but his back is straight and he meets Castiel's eyes firmly. Then he seems to realize who Castiel is, and exhales roughly, a strange mix of hope and despair on his face. His mouth opens, but then he flinches back, eyes looking over Castiel's shoulder, and shifts around the arm not in view. Castiel recognizes the action – he's getting the gun up from pointing at the floor.

"Dean, wait. It's all right, he knows," Castiel says quickly.

"I'm not here to arrest you," Morgan says over Castiel's shoulder, in a tone of a voice that indicates he regrets that fact.

Dean eyes Morgan a moment longer, face now a blank wall, then says, "I have a Glock in my left hand. It's not cocked. I'll put it away when you come in. No need to shoot." Then he steps aside.

Castiel looks back at Morgan, just to make sure, but Morgan immediately nods. They're both armed, but Morgan didn't even draw. So far, so good. Castiel follows Dean in, noting the two queen beds, one of which has a large duffel sitting on it, half open. He sees clothes, but suspects there's weapons in there as well. The room is average motel size, which means that no matter which way Castiel goes he won't be farther than perhaps twenty feet from Dean. It's a heady realization.

When Morgan is inside, Castiel turns around, watching as Dean shows Morgan his Glock with his trigger finger straight across the barrel. He then puts the gun on the small, rickety desk, and walks away from it. Closer to Castiel, as it happens, and farther from Morgan, who deliberately lets his arms hang at his sides.

Castiel focuses on Dean. After a moment, Dean returns that regard, looking more wary, but still with a certain softness in his eyes. He doesn't speak and simply stands there, waiting.

Fear and longing take hold, and then impulse takes over. In a moment, Castiel steps forward and embraces Dean, one arm around Dean's waist, the other thrown over his arm, his palm flat on Dean's back. Dean freezes for a second, then makes a small pained noise and carefully brings his arms up, his hold so light it barely qualifies. But Dean presses his face into Castiel's neck, and breathes deeply, like he's capturing Castiel's scent. Castiel can smell gun oil on Dean, under the scent of sweat.

His body is very suddenly on high alert. He's acutely aware of the fact that he's held Dean's naked body in his arms, and vice versa. That the last time they really touched like this, with their whole bodies, was in that motel room, after having had sex. Dean kissed him goodbye. Castiel's heart is beating fast, and he can't tell if he's aroused or not, but his body is tense as a live wire. Castiel doesn't know whether to back away or push in, feel more of Dean's warmth.

Dean steps backwards.

Castiel lets him go.

Dean gives him a tremulous smile. "It's good to see you well."

Castiel nods awkwardly. "Yes. You, too."

It's almost a mercy when Morgan puts his messenger bag on the empty bed. "We brought files."

It seems to relax Dean, even though it's Morgan speaking. He says, "Yeah, so did I. I wasn't sure what you were having trouble with, but I figured it was one of two or three cases that were still open when I went in. So I brought everything about those." He points at a laptop case, which has old folders stuffed into a pocket.

"It's a series of vampire nests," Castiel says. "You familiar with it? I remember you mentioning something about that on – well, on the phone."

Dean blinks, perhaps at Castiel referring to their phone calls. "Yeah. Wyoming, a few other states on the west coast, leading to the Midwest? Kill ten people or so, move on?"

"Yes. What did you find?" Castiel asks.

Dean knew quite a bit, as it turns out. He was aware there was a mated leader, and about seventy following him at the time. He wasn't sure of the individual group numbers, but he killed two groups in their entirety, and that accounted for sixteen vampire kills. Castiel isn't surprised, but Morgan is; Castiel knows he's remembering what it was like to fight just a couple, the overwhelming strength and speed. Dean seems to notice, because he goes into some detail about the uses of sunlight and dead man's blood to slow them down. Dean couldn't find a solid overall pattern, though he thinks that the leader was calculating group movements. The best he could do was show up after a death or two, and wipe out the nest.

"It's both good and bad your friend got the mate. It will make the leader more irrational and less careful, but it'll also make him dangerous, since vampires mate for life," Dean explains. "I think my priority right now should be tracking down James, and any hunters who were helping him. Get more information. Then I can start planning how to take out the leader. Once we do that, the nests will probably dissolve, or at least become a lot easier to hunt. Unless they're old, vampires have poor impulse control. It makes them easy to manipulate."

"So you think you can handle this?" Morgan asks, expression reserved.

"Do I think I can finish the case? Yeah, eventually. Probably. Done harder, though you never know what you'll miss, what mistake you'll make." Dean shrugs. He's changed over the past hour of explanations and information sharing. Confident and almost business-like. Castiel can see his mind working on the puzzle, eerily similar to how his teammates react to a new case. The two small trips that Dean took him on didn't really qualify as hunts, not from Castiel's perspective anyway. Dean had solved them, then taken Castiel along. "There's risk, but there always is, and these bloodsuckers need beheaded. It would help if you guys could let me know if you see anything, or get any more info on the vampires."

Castiel grabs the ready-made burner phone from his pocket and hands it to Dean. He has to repress a shiver when their fingers touch.

"Thanks," Dean says softly, meeting Castiel's eyes briefly.

"I took the same precautions I did before, with the phone," Castiel says. Morgan shifts in his seat on the other bed; he'd more or less forced Castiel to take the desk chair. "My own burner is preprogrammed in the memory. I'll call you if we hear anything else."

Dean nods, slipping the phone into his jeans pocket.

"Morgan, would you mind giving a few minutes?" Castiel asks, knowing he's probably asking a lot.

Morgan stares at Castiel for a long moment, then shifts his gaze to Dean. "Try anything, and I'll kill you."

And Dean simply says, "Good."

Morgan exits silently. He leaves the door cracked.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says as soon as he hears the door jamb almost engage.

Dean blinks. "For what?"

"Dragging you back into this life. I didn't ask. I broke my promise to leave you in prison."

Dean gives Castiel a very familiar wry look. "Well, technically you didn't promise anything, you just left me there." He holds up his hands. "Which, you know, was the right thing. No, Cas, don't be sorry. I get it. I'm a hunter, remember? Always."

Castiel bites his lip. "I didn't visit – I couldn't –"

"Cas, don't," Dean says quietly.

"It's not that I don't care about you," Castiel tries again, his chest tight.

"I'm glad you moved on, okay?" Dean's face is so softly sympathetic. Sad, actually, but it's not self-pity. "To me, it meant you were healing. And that's all I want. You healthy and happy."

Castiel looks down at his hands. "Thank you."

"I won't hurt you," Dean adds. "I know I have nothing but my word to give towards that, but I promise I won't. I – I had a psychologist of sorts, in prison. Wanted to get my head on straight, so I could never – never do what I did to you again."

Castiel looks up, surprised. "You got therapy?"

"Yeah."

"That's – that's good, Dean. I'm happy for you." That fact sets off a whirlwind of thoughts. Dean got therapy, from someone actually qualified. Castiel wonders what the results were, what the psychologist thought, but even in prison there's medical confidentiality. The therapist could tell what the sessions consisted of in only the vaguest of terms.

"Cas. I should get going. Get started." Dean smiles a bit, hesitantly.

Castiel finds himself disappointed. He's not even sure why. He walked away for nearly a year, and put Dean out of his mind. Why is he having trouble with the same concept now?

"Do you need the bag, or can I …?" Dean asks.

"Take it," Castiel says, shaking his head.

Dean stands up and, following the social cue, Castiel does the same. He finds himself just staring at Dean, noticing more details. There's a new scar, light and faint, near his temple. His hair is shorter than Castiel's ever seen it, and while he'd been mostly smooth-shaven with Castiel, he's got a several day stubble going. And there's a heaviness to his eyes. The light and happiness Castiel saw every time Dean came home from a hunt isn't there. He's pleased to see Castiel, Castiel can tell that, but there's a reservation, a kind of expected distance.

Not sure what to say, or even really what to feel, Castiel turns to leave.

When he has his hand on the door knob, Dean speaks. "Thank you for smiling."

Castiel looks back, smiling reflexively in confusion, but all he does is nod. Dean tilts his head, not smiling himself.

Outside is cool and dark.

Morgan is leaning against the wall next to the door. "You ready to go?" he asks, more gently than Castiel expects.

"Yes."

They get into Morgan's car, with Castiel in the passenger seat. He slumps, realizing that he was on an adrenaline high during the whole meeting. No wonder he was shaking. Usually when he's got that kind of high, it's on the job, not because he's emotionally aggravated. Now that it's over, the motel room door closed and Morgan turning the car on, he feels that familiar exhaustion.

"Were you listening?" Castiel finally asks, when they're stopped at a red light.

"I caught some of it," Morgan admits, "but I was really only listening to make sure nothing happened."

Castiel nods, closing his eyes.

"I want that phone," Morgan adds. "The number you preprogrammed for Dean."

"Why? You don't trust me?"

Morgan's jaw clenches. "I'm worried," which of course isn't an answer, except in the sense that the answer is probably yes and Morgan doesn't want to admit it.

Castiel thought ahead, though, and he's got Dean's number memorized. He can grab another phone to use to talk to Dean. "Fine."

"Castiel. Do me a favor. Take this as an opportunity to say goodbye, not hello."

To his surprise, his reaction is to laugh, and he's not even sure why. No matter many how times Morgan asks, he can't give an answer.

* * *

Castiel got the official notification about Dean's escape thirty six hours after the fact, a courtesy for a former victim. But the investigation itself didn't come his way for nearly a week, probably because they were assuming Dean to be in the brush, trying to hike out.

Federal marshals have taken Dean's case, though Castiel is relatively confident that Dean won't be captured any time soon. He spent too long evading the nation's law enforcement while solving cases. If Dean doesn't want to be caught, he probably won't be. It helps, of course, that Dean has some degree of magic on his side, and now some degree of warning about the cases he's working on. If he is caught, Anna can simply pick him up again. Dean survived in prison all right, for all of Dean's fears beforehand. Castiel wonders if he took special precautions. Probably. He'd hoped so, when he first learned of Dean's surrender to the police, and he thinks that Dean would have done so if only for Castiel's sake.

The federal marshal in charge of the case consulted with the BAU. Castiel doesn't know any more than that; Morgan only said he doubted they would be successful.

So Castiel is surprised to find a blond woman sitting at his desk. "Can I help you?" he asks, stopping before his own desk and setting down his breakfast muffin.

"Marshal Evans," the woman introduces herself. "I'm part of the taskforce assigned to Dean Winchester."

"I – see."

"I was wondering if I could get your perspective on a few things," she says, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel has no good reason to refuse. "Of course. Conference room?" He gestures in the general direction.

Marshal Evans leads the way. She's a field agent – she's wearing a suit, but her shoes are made for running, and everything loose enough for easy movement. She has a briefcase, which she lays down on the conference table. She sits. Castiel chooses a seat with one between them, and folds his hands, waiting.

"I realize this is hard for you –"

"I'd rather you just ask your questions, then go through the usual sympathy," Castiel interrupts. "I don't doubt that you even mean it, but it's not necessary."

"All right. Then I'll be blunt: I know you've taken measures to hide yourself, but do you think he'll try to kidnap you again?"

Castiel shakes his head, wondering if she saw the video of their final meeting. Once the federal marshals determined Dean escaped the general area – still not knowing how he escaped at all – they turn to Dean's history. "No, I don't. I think he genuinely regretted that, and he wouldn't have turned himself in originally if he didn't."

"We got a warrant for monitoring your lines in case he does call you," Marshal Evans says. "I'm telling you that as a courtesy."

Castiel nods. "I expected it."

She opens the briefcase. "Dean arrived at the police station in a stolen car. He didn't even have his wallet, but he did have three items on him, and I suspect they were deliberate. Would you mind looking and identifying them for me, if possible?"

"Go ahead."

She takes out a picture of keys.

"The keys to his car, the '67 Impala."

"Do you know the significance? He wasn't driving that car."

Castiel does. Dean left those keys for Castiel, in case he wanted them. But he can't say that, so he silently shakes his head.

Another picture, a photograph of Sam. It's slightly blurry, but Sam is smiling and he looks healthy. Must have been before the trials.

"It's his brother, I don't know the significance otherwise."

And last, another photograph. Castiel casts his gaze down, and then freezes. With a shaking hand, he picks up the glossy picture. His other hand goes to his mouth, and then his wet eyes. He wipes them, taking a deep breath, trying to regain control that has already lapsed. And in front of a stranger.

"This means something to you," she says softly.

There, in bright colors, is his garden in full bloom. Yellows and reds and greens, all vividly alive and clearly cared for. Weeded, but half completed projects were completed, too, like the paving stones in the little walkways Castiel designed. Some of the walls he'd made – so the garden would have several levels – have been reinforced. "Yes," he admits quietly. "It's my garden. When Dean let me outside, I eventually turned the space into a cultivated one. I escaped in late winter, almost spring, so I never saw it in full bloom." He looks up. "He cared for it. This must have been taken in full summer."

"Your garden in the bunker where he kept you captive?" Marshal Evans asks.

"Yes."

"And you still have no idea where that is?"

"Kansas," Castiel says with a shrug. He puts the photograph down, carefully. "Beyond that, no, I don't know where it is."

"Thank you. This gives me a good lead."

It does, though Castiel didn't think this meeting would. If Dean cared for that garden and took a picture of it he carried into prison, then he was attached to the place even after Castiel escaped. He'll return. It gives the marshals a place to start looking. Castiel nods at her, feeling queasy. He couldn't lie, not after reacting like that, but he does worry for Dean's safety in that case. The bunker is Dean's home base. He could live without out it, but it would be harder, and it has a huge collection of important supernatural objects. "Is that all you need?"

"Yes, thank you. Have a nice day, Agent Novak."

He doesn't watch her leave, but he does wish she'd left the photograph.

That night, he takes his secondary burner phone and texts Dean: _It's C. They're looking for the bunker. Delete this text._

A response comes almost immediately, like Dean was waiting for him. _Thanks, Cas._

Castiel hesitates before hitting the delete button.

* * *

Two weeks later, Castiel's at home. The entire team is, recovering from their last case. No one was injured, but it was a child abduction case, so no one got any sleep. It ended well, so when they finally got home Hotchner just gave everyone two days off, and they all separated. Castiel spent the first day sleeping and eating, Aditi curled up next to him in bed. Her warm fur was like an extra blanket, and he turned up the air conditioning at night to compensate.

It's dawn on day two, and Castiel is awake.

Aditi whines to be let out. Castiel sighs, but he gets dressed and takes care of her. Having a dog is more work with a job, but he's found that she also keeps him feeling centered; he has someone to come to, someone outside of work that is a steady presence in his life. Aditi doesn't share as much as life as she once did, but his neighbor finds her helpful. She'll certainly eat anything off the floor he drops and can't pick up with his poor hip. She's also gotten good at following instructions on picking up items, like dropped TV remotes. It's not a skill Castiel really needs, but it's good for entertainment value, and he likes that Aditi is useful to someone besides him.

Castiel has a new phone in the pot.

He sits at the kitchen table, and contemplates it. Dean hasn't given Castiel any updates, but Morgan has the primary phone. He wonders if Dean knows about that little power struggle.

He stands and gets the pot, taking out the phone. He turns it on. It won't register on the local towers anymore, deleting record of its presence before the phone call ends. Castiel doesn't make the same mistake twice.

Not usually.

He dials.

 _"Yeah?"_ Dean's voice, so familiar, answering exactly like he always did.

Castiel sinks to the floor, closing his eyes.

 _"Hello?"_ Dean says, beginning to sound annoyed.

"Hello, Dean."

Long pause. _"Hi, Cas. Is something wrong? Update on the case?"_

Castiel takes a deep breath. "No, not on this end. Have you found anything?"

 _"Traces. I'm backtracking. I also found the two survivors of your friend James' hunting buddies. They hadn't given up, were just taking a step back and figuring things out. But um, James didn't make it."_

"Shit," Castiel says. "I should have helped him. Gone out there, given him backup."

 _"That's not your job,"_ Dean says. _"Not exactly, anyway."_

"Isn't it?"

 _"What you do is useful. James was a hunter, he knew the gig. You shouldn't feel guilty, Cas. It happens."_

Castiel sighs.

 _"Uh, hey, Cas, is there a reason Morgan didn't tell you this?"_

"When did you tell him?"

 _"Yesterday."_

"He probably didn't have time, then," Castiel says, hoping that's true. They agreed pretty easily that they shouldn't discuss hunting or Dean in an any way except in person, in a safe place. "He took the preprogrammed cell I had."

 _"He didn't want you talking to me."_ It's not a question.

"He's – worried. But wrong."

 _"I don't know about that, Cas. I – don't me wrong. I love talking to you. Hearing your voice. But I get why he wouldn't want that."_

Castiel smiles, rises to his feet. He feels steadier. "Well, that's my choice."

 _"Mine, too."_ Less confirmation and more of a reminder.

"Are you saying I shouldn't call you, Dean?"

A huffed breath. _"No, of course not. Just, you know. I want what's best for you."_

"I know what's best for me," Castiel says a little sharply, directed not so much at Dean as at Morgan.

 _"I know,"_ Dean says in a small voice.

Probably thinking of all the times Dean took that choice away. Castiel swallows, tries to gather his thoughts. "I didn't mean it that way."

 _"You should,"_ Dean whispers.

Castiel doesn't answer for nearly a full minute, thinking. "I want to start over, Dean. I haven't forgotten the past, but I don't want to – to reference it all the time, to dwell on it. You turned yourself in and let them put you on death row." Shortening his life by decades. "You've changed. I don't want to … punish you for things you've changed."

 _"God, Cas. Are you trying to be a fucking saint or something?"_ Dean laughs, and it sounds painful.

Castiel chuckles a little. "No. It's not just for you, Dean. It's for me, too."

Dean breathes over the line. He seems to start and stop a few times before finally saying, _"Okay."_

"Where are you? What are you doing after you're finished where you are?"

 _"Tennessee. I might go back home. Depends on what leads I get. Why?"_

"Can – can you come here? To see me?"

The silence this time feels surprised. _"Why?"_

"I want to see you."

Dean laughs, startled. _"Why?"_ he repeats.

That's a good question. Castiel decides to be honest. "I'm not sure why. I just – I want to. Can you?" He feels like a teenager trying to convince a boyfriend to sneak over to his house.

 _"Yeah. If you're sure. I mean, something might come up, and something might come up for you, too, so, yeah. Just, um, let me know. Uh, give me a few days to get there?"_

Castiel nods at nothing. "Understood. Text me when you get closer. If I don't answer within twenty four hours, then I had to go with the team, and you should return to the bunker." He realizes he sounds like a boss or something, not a friend, but it's how he knows to handle logistics.

But Dean sounds relieved. _"Got it."_

"Goodbye, Dean."

Soft, _"Bye, Cas."_ And the beep of an ended call.

Castiel turns off the phone and puts it back into the pot, and the pot back on the fridge. Then he sits by the window and lets the jitters work through his body.

What is the source of this desire to see Dean? To speak to him? To know him?

It's been an illogical drive thus far. Dean doubted that Castiel would see him in prison, even for that one meeting, and yet, Castiel never thought for a moment he wouldn't. Yes, it provided him closure, but that was hardly the only reason he did it. He just isn't sure he can name the other reason. Kindness? Affection? He didn't want Dean to suffer. He specifically told Dean, more than once, that while what he was doing was wrong, he didn't feel that Dean deserved prison. When Dean decided differently, Castiel let him make that choice and left him to it.

Now that Castiel has made the choice to bring Dean back into the world, why can't he walk away again? Let Morgan handle it?

Is it because he's alone now? That he's broken up with Stephen, so he's automatically falling back into old patterns?

But he broke up with Stephen precisely because he didn't want that. Stephen wanted a degree of control over Castiel's life and choices that Castiel wasn't prepared to give him. Compromise wasn't possible.

Castiel thinks about his conversation with Dean again. He didn't really think about it when he said it, but after the fact – when he did come to the realization he didn't want to punish Dean anymore? When he forgave Dean? Maybe. Possibly even earlier. He did tell Dean he didn't deserve prison. But now? He does believe that Dean is a different person. He believed that even before Dean turned himself in to the police, because Dean's understanding of what he'd done had reached such a deep level that Castiel didn't think Dean would repeat his threatening behaviors. But even at the time, Castiel knew logically that understanding isn't typically enough for offenders to change behavior.

Then again, Dean's always been in a category of his own. Even in kidnapping Castiel and the patterns of behavior he demonstrated there, he didn't fully fit any of any stalker/kidnapper archetypes. Not that all kidnappers do, but Dean was always wildly out of the range of normal.

He wishes he could get his hands on Dean's therapy notes. Maybe then he could justify this to himself, safety-wise.

Or just say fuck it, the way he's been doing.

Dean wasn't evil then, and he's not now. Castiel still trusts that, even he doesn't entirely trust Dean's coping skills.

But he's meandering from the point: why does he even want continuing contact?

There's a knock at the door. Castiel's heart beats wildly with guilt and he double checks that he put the phone in the pot, and then pauses to regain control. Why the hell is he keeping a secret just after happily losing them all? Then he answers the door.

It's Morgan, raising an eyebrow. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." Castiel steps aside. "Can I get you something? Coffee?"

"If you've got the good stuff," Morgan says.

"I have some special roast," Castiel says, and starts looking through his pantry. He hears Morgan settle at the kitchen table. "So what's up?"

"Dean called."

Castiel does not flinch, because he's better trained than that. Instead he stops what he's doing, because he would, and says, "Is he okay? Any updates?" Okay, so he's decided to lie.

"He's fine. Your hunter friend is dead, unfortunately, but he reconnected with two survivors. He's backtracking the vampires' trail, looking for clues until they show up again."

Castiel exhales slowly, then returns to the pantry and finds the special roast. He begins the process of making good coffee, letting the routine soothe him. "Did he say how James died?"

"Ambush. The vampires must know that hunters are onto them."

Castiel gets the water boiling and puts the grounds in the filter. "Do they know the FBI are after them? Without knowing what they are?"

"Yeah, seems that way. I know we theorized that already, but Dean agreed with our assessment. Forensic countermeasures don't much to distract hunters, except in camouflaging MO in the media, which is their primary source of information."

"Yeah, Dean had me –" Castiel stops. Then hesitantly continues, without turning around, "He had me look for hunts, while I was with him. He collected newspapers from all over the country, along with online sources."

Morgan doesn't say anything. Castiel finishes preparing the coffee, and sets a mug down in front of Morgan before joining him at the table. Then, at last, Morgan says, "Can I ask a personal question?"

Wary, but trying not to show it, Castiel says, "Sure."

"When we caught him during your captivity, Dean said you were soulmates and that he knew about you before Wyoming. Was he telling the truth?"

Castiel blinks. That was the last thing he expected to have brought up. "Yes, he was."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

Castiel takes a sip of coffee, mostly to get his thoughts together. "Apparently it was something that Sam originally asked Anna about. Sam had a romantic and platonic soulmate – Jess, his girlfriend who died, and Dean. I don't know how soulmates are chosen, it seems more like angels just recognize it."

"And you were his romantic soulmate?"

"Yes. Sam was his platonic one. Shortly after Sam died, Dean went looking for me, but he chose not to try to contact me at the time."

"Until he saw you in Wyoming."

"It triggered some kind of instinctual response," Castiel says. "Soulmates are drawn to each other, though there's free will involved." Castiel pauses. "I'm not saying Dean didn't have a choice about how he reacted, because he did."

Morgan nods slowly, sipping from his mug. "Do you think that's why you're drawn to him?"

Castiel exhales. "It's certainly possible."

"But you have free will," Morgan reminds.

"Wanting to talk to Dean alone was my choice," Castiel says, letting an edge enter his voice. "I'm not being mind controlled."

Morgan grimaces. "I didn't think you were. At least not supernaturally."

Castiel parses that out. "You think I'm still damaged. Psychologically."

"Aren't you?" Morgan says it baldly, but with no similar edge. Just concern.

"I'm not who I was, but it's not because of raw wounds, or unthinking ones," Castiel says. He's lying a little about the last part, but just because he hasn't figured out precisely why he wants to keep contact with Dean doesn't mean he isn't trying, and that he'll fail to understand it. "Really, Morgan. I feel – in control."

"I don't think you're weak, Castiel. This isn't what this is about. You survived through Dean and learning about the supernatural, and hell, you did it while not being able to tell a soul the whole truth."

Castiel smiles at him. "Thank you. I don't think you think that. I just – I don't want the nanny act."

"Did you just call me a nanny, Agent Novak?"

Castiel sips his coffee to hide his grin. "Did I?"

Morgan laughs. "Maybe I'm prepping," he says, referring to his unborn child.

"I do hear that dads get sympathetic hormones," Castiel says, warming to the topic with a smirk.

Morgan makes a face. "Shut up."

"I've even heard –"

"I don't want to know!"

* * *

It actually takes a month for Castiel and Dean to meet. Dean is the one who ends up cancelling first, because he catches onto another vamp nest. Illinois, this time, which indicates they really are slowly moving east. Three people dead, but Dean goes in with full daylight on his side and wipes out the nest. As far as Castiel and Morgan can tell, the FBI hasn't connected it to either Dean or the vampire killings. Dean takes a computer from the scene, but ends up shipping it to PO Box for a friend of Morgan's.

Charlie hasn't spoken to Dean since Castiel did. And, Dean admits to Castiel, anyone he knew through her has also gone silent. He seems reluctant to say it, though Castiel doesn't know why; he has to know that was Castiel's doing.

He does not feel guilty. He does not.

After that, the BAU gets a case. Castiel is gone for a week and a half, and spends none of it thinking about Dean. It's oddly easy to fall into his normal life.

Three days after returning home, Castiel stands in front a run-down motel door, fidgeting. Fuck. Why is he doing this?

He knocks on the door.

Dean answers almost immediately. He's wearing his usual clothes, rough jeans and heavy boots with a t-shirt and a soft flannel shirt over it. He licks his lips, a nervous twitch that Castiel knows well, but he just says, "Hey," and steps aside.

Two beds, again.

The chair at the tiny desk looks rickety, so Castiel chooses a bed to sit on instead – choosing the side facing the other bed. Dean decides to sit on the far side of the other bed, so he's farther from Castiel than he could be. If he wanted.

"You look good," Dean says finally.

"So do you," and Castiel means it. Dean has gained a little bit of weight, though he looks very nervous and unsure right now. Much of the light and energy that characterized Dean when he was happy is still absent. Castiel can't exactly blame him for the nervousness, considering he's feeling the same way. They look at each other awkwardly for almost a full minute.

Dean smiles a little. "Why are you here, Cas? Not that I'm not glad to see you, but I don't know what you want from me."

"I …" Castiel can't find the right words. Maybe they aren't there. "I've missed you."

"No, you don't," Dean says immediately, reflexively.

Castiel is surprised. "You really think that?"

Dean blushes and looks down. Then, slowly, and painfully, his body curling in on itself, "Yeah. I do. I know what I did to you, Cas. And you're being nice, but I know how fucked I was up and how I saw everything as you –"

"Dean." Castiel doesn't say it sharply, but it brings Dean to a halt anyway, his head still hanging. He stopped Dean because he doesn't need another recitation of Dean's crimes. But it hits Castiel that Dean's reaction makes sense. Thinking about his past with Castiel has been all he's done, and Dean has been clearly depressed, if functioning. He was depressed in prison, and out of it. That much was obvious the first time Castiel saw him after Anna rescued him on Castiel's orders.

Dean bites his lip and waits.

Castiel just looks at him, processing at last. Castiel left him. Not once, but twice – and while Dean might understand intellectually why Castiel left him both times, first for freedom, and second on Dean's request, emotional understanding has always been Dean's failing. After a year and a half of exploring the darker side of his nature with little reinforcement, and none at all from Castiel, Dean's self-esteem is probably as down low as it can go.

Castiel has healed, but Dean is still hurting. And Dean has always understood actions best.

Getting up and sitting right next to Dean is weirdly hard, but pulling Dean into his arms isn't. Dean freezes and goes stiff in his arms, and he briefly tries to pull away. Castiel lets him, and Dean raises his gaze to meet Castiel's. He's searching for something, and Castiel lets him look. Then Dean's face crumples a bit and he leans into Castiel's touch, putting his arms around Castiel – again, so lightly, even as Dean puts his head on Castiel's shoulder.

Dean breathes shallowly.

Very slowly, so as not to startle, Castiel asks, "Do you remember when I told you that you might be broken, but you still have value?"

The steady rhythm of Dean's breathing breaks.

"I still believe that. And I do care about you, Dean."

Dean speaks into Castiel's shoulder. "But it's not right, me getting anything out of this."

"I want you to. And I've never wanted you to suffer needlessly."

Dean does pull away at that. "I deserve to suffer. You know that. I put you through hell. If you hadn't run, I never would have done the right thing on my own, Cas. Doesn't that scare the shit out of you?"

"Yes," and Castiel kisses him.

Dean lurches forward into the kiss, opening his mouth and by doing so silently urging Castiel to do the same. His mouth is warm and his lips just as soft as Castiel remembers. Before Castiel can react, though, Dean throws himself out of Castiel's arms and away from him. He scrambles off the bed entirely. He's breathing hard. His lips are wet. "You're scared of me."

Castiel stares at him, heart beating fast.

"And I – I think you're confused," Dean says, taking a step backward. His eyes are wide and skittering around.

"I'm sorry," Castiel whispers. It's fear that drives his adrenaline, not arousal, even if he can see a slight bulge in Dean's jeans. He wipes his mouth, shuddering. He wants to vomit. He wants to crawl out of his skin. It's not Dean's fault, or not directly. Not Dean's fault in the present, perhaps, is the right way to see it; his own reactions are confusing him. "I'm still so drawn to you, and I do care about you, but I haven't forgotten. I don't think I can."

"You shouldn't. I dream about you, Cas, about when I had you in my home and in my bed." Dean's voice is low and a constant stream of words. He stares at Castiel intensely, still standing. His jaw clenches. "I jerk off to memories of having sex with you, even if I'm ashamed of it. Everything I do is for you, going to prison and staying there, coming here, fighting these vamps. I think about heaven, spending time with you, I think about you so much, Cas, and I don't know that I could ever separate myself from you, even if I wanted to."

Castiel shivers, half in fear, half not. "I don't want to fear you, Dean. I meant what I said before – I don't want to punish you for things you've changed." And – is it punishment, to reject Dean now, to walk away? He did it once and Dean didn't blame him. Dean is wary of him, keeping his distance. Castiel breaking that separation seemed like something Dean wouldn't object to. That he would want. But does he?

Dean looks lost. Castiel knows the feeling. "But you should fear me. Want to punish me."

Despite the fear still thrumming through his heart, Castiel's back straightens. "But who are you to tell me what I want, Dean?"

Dean shrinks back.

Castiel holds up a hand, the mere act somehow calming. Like in handling Dean he handles himself. "I don't say that to hurt you. Please, Dean. Only to say that's it's my choice if I want those things, and not something you're responsible for one way or another."

Some of the tenseness fades from Dean as he processes that. "Yeah, I get it. What you feel and what you want is up to you. And I'm hardly the person to tell you what you're doing wrong," he adds wryly.

Morgan would have a few choice words about this meeting, Castiel muses.

"What do we do, then?" Dean asks. "What do _I_ do?"

Castiel already has a promise. He can either have faith in that promise, or not. His emotions will follow where his mind goes. What choice he makes.

From the moment Dean kidnapped Castiel from his apartment, the moment Castiel blacked out with Dean's arm across his throat, they were connected. Unequally. By Dean's pain, first, the driving and destruction nature of it. Then as Dean flowered into a real person, a flawed person who wanted so desperately to be loved, who laughed at death and the darkest pieces of the world, the thinnest of connections formed on Castiel's end. It's a thread that would never have formed with Castiel's permission.

But it's still there.

Along with that old, steady fear. As much as Castiel felt he loved Dean, especially in the last six months of his captivity, fear always accompanied it, because he knew that on the right provocation, Dean would – with sadness, with regret, even with shame – use violent means to keep him. That fear eventually mixed with arousal and the mental acknowledgement of how much Dean wanted and needed him, but it never went away.

That fear damaged Dean, too. Fear of losing Castiel, and the lengths that Dean would go to in order to prevent that.

Most, if not all, of Castiel's wounds have closed, leaving scars behind. That's why Castiel's here.

"Hold me?" Castiel says at last, a request for himself. Perhaps selfish, perhaps destructive, but what he wants in this moment. "And then when I want you to, let me go."

Anguish and a strange kind of happiness that only Castiel could understand crosses Dean's face. "Okay." Dean looks around at the motel room and blinks. "Um, how do you …?"

"Lay down on the bed. On your back."

Swallowing, Dean obeys. Castiel crawls over to him, still fully dressed down to his sneakers, and lies down next to him. He carefully arranges his arm over Dean's chest, letting his head fall to the other motel pillow. They're close, but not nearly as close as they usually slept. Castiel's right leg is close to Dean's, but besides Castiel's arm, they're not touching. Dean stares at the ceiling determinedly until Castiel settles, then he looks over, licking his lips. Castiel glances at Dean's groin, but he doesn't look like he's still aroused. Dean's tense anyway.

Castiel lets his breathing slow. Lets his trust show. As if to say, See? You can touch me without hurt me.

He somehow thinks that's important, even if he fears Dean at the same time.

Some amount of time passes. Castiel doesn't have anywhere to be, so he lets it stream over him without notice. He finds that as he counts Dean's breaths, his anxiety at being so close to Dean fades. In a way, he's remembering all the good times along with the bad. Castiel doubted Dean's sanity, doubted Dean's ability to morally see his own actions, but he never doubted Dean's love for him.

Dean's eyes go sleepy. But he doesn't drift off. Eventually he says, "Cas? Can I ask for something?"

"Of course."

Dean searches Castiel's face. "I raped you. I know I did. But please, don't confuse me." Dean touched his own lips, and Castiel knows he's remembering that sudden, unexpected kiss. "If you start something, and then end it, I will respect that, but it will break me. I don't want to be broken again, Cas."

It takes Castiel's breath away. He can't answer. The degree of self-awareness in that request shows how far Dean has come – and how damaged he still is. His connection to Castiel overpowers his connection to anything else, save Sam, who isn't here. Castiel knew that, he knew that, but somehow, he'd forgotten just how deep it went for Dean. Deep enough to cause a crack in Dean's psyche incapable of recovery.

For Castiel, losing Dean would hurt, probably in a way that would never heal, but Castiel would live on. The same isn't true for Dean.

If Castiel were to leave right now, Dean would survive. He's already psychologically and emotionally accepted separation from Castiel, even if he's not precisely happy. If Castiel chooses to do this, to maintain a friendship … he has to do so knowing that he can't back out. Not as emotional support.

The power to back out is one that Castiel fought for. But he's no longer chained, absent of decision; only absent of a decision without consequences.

"I understand," Castiel finally says. "I don't know why I did that. But I didn't mean to hurt you."

Dean exhales slowly. "Okay."

"You're – you're doing better, aren't you, Dean?"

"Well. Yeah, I think so. Hunting's been good, really helped me screw my head on straight. Gives me something to focus on." Even those words seem to sharpen Dean's focus, and away from his present anxiety.

Castiel hesitates. "And emotionally? You're coping?"

"I learned," Dean says, slightly defensive. "I learned what to do, so I don't get so fucked up again."

"I don't want to upset your emotional balance by being here, by contacting you –"

"Don't worry about me," Dean says quickly.

"Dean, I have to," Castiel presses. "For your sake and mine. You asked me not to break you, and I don't want to do that, even if only by accident. I want your friendship, but not at that kind of cost to you."

Dean bites his lip and looks away.

"If I had to, to save myself, I would leave you. Knowing that, do you want to have anything to do with me?" Castiel asks. "Do you think it's actually safe for both of us?"

Dean swallows, eyes flicking over. "Yes. I – it might be weird to say. I trust myself not to go that far again. For me and you."

Can Castiel trust that? Or should he end things here, have Morgan be the one to handle and help Dean? It would be the safer route. For both of them, probably. Castiel thinks that Dean is telling the truth; Dean never lied, except by omission, and there's not much to be had here. But is it Castiel's responsibility as the saner party to say no? To cut off contact, and maintain the equilibrium Dean has found? And what of Castiel's wants? What does Castiel want, and why?

He wants Dean. On some level. Closeness. A friendship. The first thing that Castiel missed when he escaped was the physical intimacy, but the emotional intimacy was what hurt even a year later.

Dean just waits.

Castiel says, "Okay."

Dean smiles, slow and genuine. "Okay."

"And you want this? Contact? A friendship?" He needs to be clear on that one.

"I do," Dean says simply. "I always will."

They don't speak again. Castiel gets more comfortable, shifting the pillow around and rearranging his legs. He toes off his sneakers, and after a moment's hesitation Dean does the same thing. The room is filled with their quiet breathing, not quite in sync.

Castiel only realizes he fell asleep when he wakes up. That's the moment he also realizes that he shifted in his sleep, in his usual stupid habit. He's curled up right against Dean's side, and with two fully dressed men, that makes for an unpleasantly sweaty experience. His mouth is dry. And Dean is snoring.

With a groan, Castiel flips himself over his back and levers himself off of the bed. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dean react by sitting straight up, blinking wildly.

Castiel looks at him. Dean's hair is mussed, one part sticking straight up, and there's a line of drool on his cheek.

Castiel bursts out of laughing.

"What?" Dean asks, irritated, though a smile is working its way out of his frown.

"I thought I stopped taking unscheduled naps when I was four," Castiel says, checking his watch. It's nearly seven in the morning. He slept eight hours.

Dean wipes his cheek, making a disgusted face. "You make it sound like unscheduled naps are a bad thing."

Castiel responds by searching for his shoes. Then, "I have to go to work today, though I'm expected in late." He runs a hand through his hair, which is spiky from sweat. "I should go home and take a shower before I do."

"I should head out, check out a couple of sightings," Dean says, tone turning business-like.

Castiel shoves on his sneakers without bothering to retie them. "Do me a favor?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell Morgan I met you," Castiel says.

Dean stops what he's doing and raises an eyebrow. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"Yes?"

"If you can be talked out of, you know, meeting with me, then shouldn't you be?" Dean asks.

It's a surprisingly logical point. If Morgan can logically convince him he's on the wrong course, he probably does owe it to Morgan and himself to give him that shot. "You're right."

"I am?" Dean says, clearly surprised.

"You do have your moments," Castiel replies, shrugging lightly with a smile. He checks his pockets, but he's still got his cell, keys, and wallet in place.

Dean returns the smile after a second.

"I'll call you in a few days," Castiel says, reassurance.

Dean nods. "Okay."

On impulse, Castiel closes the distance between them and gives Dean a brief, light hug. He doesn't wait for Dean to respond before stepping back. "Be safe, Dean."

The drive home is almost like a dream.

* * *

Morgan sighs deeply, staring at the medical boot on his left foot instead of Castiel. "You know, I thought knowing the truth would make you make more sense. Apparently I was wrong."

"Morgan –" Castiel begins.

"Are you fucking stupid?" Morgan's still a bit wonky from his pain meds, but he's glaring very clearly at Castiel at the moment.

Castiel sighs, though this is going about how he expected it to.

"Fine, then let me explain this for you. It's entirely possible you never recovered from Stockholm Syndrome. I've seen it happen – victims who even after years of separation from their captors will go back to them and even help them commit crimes." Castiel makes to speak, but Morgan doesn't let him. "Your problem is that Dean isn't an evil guy, and so your instincts and training and intellectual response are skewed. But Castiel, he's not a good one either. You have to let this go. You have to let him go."

"I don't believe that."

"You seem determined to ignore what he did to you," Morgan says. "But I remember how you flinched from us, from physical contact. Your nightmares. You were good at hiding your reactions, but you were traumatized. Can you still say the word 'rape'?"

Castiel looks away, uncomfortable. "Yes. I haven't forgotten what happened. I just don't want it to control me, not when Dean has changed." And Castiel believes he has, as much from Dean's stint in prison as the months before, in which Dean confessed to Castiel in detail.

"You said you weren't being supernaturally mind controlled, that that's not how it works. Then attempting to have some sort of relationship with Dean Winchester is your choice."

Castiel stares at Morgan's bedspread for a few long moments. He waited for nearly two weeks before talking to Morgan about his intentions towards Dean – his intention to maintain some kind of relationship with Dean, hopefully a friendship, but if nothing else an acquaintanceship, or some emotional link that maybe doesn't fall into any neat box. "Yes. It's my choice. And my fault." He looks up. "There's an incredible amount of pain in Dean and mine's history. I know that. But things don't have to be that way."

Morgan is studying him, as he often does. "This is a bad idea and you know it. Have you spoken to your therapist about this? I know you still see her twice a month."

"No, of course not. How could I? She'd report me as unstable," Castiel says.

"Aren't you?"

Castiel frowns at him. "It's not that simple and you know it. Dean's a lot more than what the world sees him as."

"He is," Morgan acknowledges, "but he's also partly what the world sees him as, and that's not a good thing."

Castiel sits back in the comfortable armchair that sits in the corner of Morgan's bedroom. Savannah is in the kitchen with a couple of friends of hers, planning for the arrival of their son, so Castiel knows they won't be interrupted. "Dean called me yesterday. He has a lead, a good one, but the hunters who James knew won't come in time. Dean's been watching the nest from a distance and seen a lot of movement."

"Where?" Morgan says sharply.

"Kentucky."

"You can't be thinking of trying to help him, Castiel!" Morgan half sits up, grimaces when his cracked ribs protest. Castiel's familiar with the feeling.

"The team –"

"The team is taking time to recover from the last case, but they don't need to be another man short," Morgan argues. "I'm not saying this because I want Dean dead. I don't. Those vampires need killed. But running off with him?" Morgan shakes his head.

"I have a day or two of paid time off," Castiel says quietly. "He needs my help, Morgan. And he didn't ask for it. He just wanted me to know in case something happened."

Morgan sighs. "Fine. But I have some precautions I want you to take."

* * *

Castiel tells Balthazar he's taking some time off. The rest is a total lie. He tries not to feel guilty as the words leave his lips, but fails.

* * *

Kentucky is green this time of year. At least this part of Kentucky. Even on this dusty road, in a beaten down motel, Castiel can see it. Dean's been living here for over a week, his stuff spread across the room. Dean says they've had a drought compared to last year, despite the greenery.

The vampire nest that Dean determined to be a center of sorts is in what used to be a ranch, so it's a fairly large property. Most of the fences are intact, but grass has gone wild, and dead trees dot the land. Homes are at least five miles away, making it isolated enough that screams couldn't be heard. From what Dean heard – and then tortured out of the one surviving vampire, who he then killed – they don't bring victims there, though. Which is why Dean is so convinced this is a planning area, a place where they organize. Significant numbers are likely. Dean's hoping for the vamp leader's office to be present.

They'll scout first.

Castiel left his own gun behind in his apartment, despite Morgan's list of precautions, because he didn't want to take the risk of being associated with Dean with evidence.

He followed the rest of Morgan's list, though. Check-ins every four hours, no exceptions for sleep, or Morgan anonymously calls 911. Castiel is to remain armed at all times. (He's kind of following that one, just with Dean's guns.) Castiel carries yet another burner, with the GPS turned on. And Morgan now knows the location of the bunker, rendering it useless as a place to keep Castiel against his will, while also significantly weakening Dean's position if he were to go off the deep end. Castiel, somewhat to his surprise, isn't worried.

Dean's been odd all day. Varying between overly solicitous and overbearing, in fact.

Castiel looks at the map again.

"Are you sure you don't want the –"

"I'm used to a Glock, Dean, for the last time," Castiel says with patience worn thin.

Dean fidgets, barely visible out of the corner of Castiel's eye. "But I – okay. Do you want me to show you how to use the machete again?"

"You can remind me before we go."

Castiel gets the impression Dean is nodding, but he focuses on the old schematics of the ranch. Like most counties, copies of building plans had to be submitted and were kept. Offline, of course, and while Castiel would be able to acquire them legally, Dean was the one who went in case the whole case goes terribly and actual law enforcement attention occurs. Dean insisted, and Castiel didn't really fight him on it – Castiel still has a life in the legal world to protect, and Dean doesn't.

This ranch was built in the eighties, and defunct by the early two thousands. The last full schematic is from the late nineties, when three rooms were added to the ranch house, which apparently at some point also served as a rural bed and breakfast. All in all, five thousand square feet of building sit on forty acres.

Given that vampires have much of the same needs as humans do – at least in bathing, and so on – Castiel can guess what rooms were converted for what use, and what their best approach is.

Dean leans over his shoulder. "I'm thinking we enter here and here," he says, pointing out a service road, and then a back service entrance into the ranch house.

"I'm inclined to agree, since we won't want to be seen."

"FBI didn't train for spy missions, huh?"

Castiel smiles, a bit of his tension from irritation loosening. "Not really."

Dean shrugs, a little grin on his face. "To be fair, most of the time I go in hacking and slashing. Spying's a side business."

"Since they're technologically sophisticated, I have a usb that will run a copying program on anything I stick it into," Castiel says, getting back to work.

Dean nods.

"We've got two hours before we can go, at the earliest," Castiel adds. "I think we should discuss contingency plans. You know how to all our hand gestures, so that won't be a problem."

"I have a few of my own, that were mine and Sam's, for, you know, monsters." Dean motions teeth. "Vamp. You get the idea."

"So if we attract attention …"

What follows is less a set of plans and more a set of possible scenarios and possible reactions. Both Dean and Castiel are trained to be in violent, life and death situations, and for the most part their instincts are similar. But where Castiel can imagine Dean had an instinctual trust in Sam's ability to take care of himself on the job – he would have to, for them to work as well together as they do – Dean doesn't feel the same way about his FBI agent hunting partner.

"No, Cas, I'm telling you – if we get more than three when retreating, I should always take the rear."

Castiel sits on the bed, looking up at Dean skeptically before saying, "We should act based on the situation, not on your desire to be protective."

"I'm the hunter, I give the orders," Dean tries, looking increasingly desperate to have Castiel agree.

"No," Castiel flatly denies. He rolls his eyes. "You may be a hunter, but I have years of experience in this, too, including being in a shoot out or fight where I'm outnumbered –"

"I won't let you –"

"Dean, stop!"

Dean's mouth snaps shut with a slight growl. He looks pissed.

"I'm not a child. I'm not new. You will treat me as a partner and we will each take the position most advantageous for our goal. Got it?"

"Why do you get to give the orders?" Dean snaps. He gets up and starts pacing their motel room. Two beds. Castiel wonders if he kept getting motel rooms with two beds just in case Castiel stopped by. And what it says that there were two beds to begin with.

Castiel sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Because I'm being rational and you're not."

Dean whirls away. Then quietly, still facing the wall instead of Castiel, he says, "I don't want you hurt. You've been hurt enough."

"I'll be fine," Castiel says softly. "Really, Dean. I'll be in no more danger than I have been before at work. For me it's an acceptable risk."

Dean turns, and it looks like he's very firmly stepping down on his impulse to say whatever he wants. "But going in. I take lead. Okay?"

Castiel nods, watching a little bit of Dean's tension leave him at the gesture. "Agreed."

* * *

Wearing civilian clothes during what amounts to a raid on a criminal enterprise feels weird. He isn't wearing leather, as it's too loud, but thick clothing that will protect him against weak or badly timed strikes. Black and brown, because vampires like to stay in the shadows, and even though vampires do have sharper eyesight, Dean thinks it could help. They also have on strong scents of sawdust, to prevent their human smell from penetrating anywhere they go too deeply. The combat boots are the same, though. Dean didn't recommend much body armor, just a few light pieces that still allow flexible movement.

Castiel worked with organized crime before he joined the BAU, so in that respect this investigation feels familiar, but coating a machete with dead man's blood … not so much. Plus syringes, easily accessible. Dean and Sam also got creative at some point and used hollow-point bullets filled with dead man's blood as a secondary weapon.

It's early afternoon. The sun is bright and the sky cloudless. The Impala rumbles to a stop about two miles from the property. She's not exactly quiet which accounts for the distance, but if they have to retreat, she's full of weapons and a rental wouldn't be, so Castiel didn't argue the point. It's not as if he's bringing tools to this job.

Dean gets out of the driver's side, and waits for Castiel. He looks up at the dirt road that winds up to what looks like from this distance a large house. At one point, the ranch had been host to guests and not just an agriculture and grazing business. He says to Castiel, "We'll go parallel the road, just in case someone's looking out a window." Tall grass should disguise their approach. "And look for motion sensors. I never found any, but it pays to be cautious, right?" He flashes Castiel a quick smile.

"That it does," Castiel agrees. "Lead the way."

Dean relaxes, and then sets off. A two mile trek through what amounts to wild grass isn't the easiest trip in combat boots, but considering how savage vampires can be, Castiel doesn't mind. He watches Dean at the same he watches their surroundings, finding Dean just as interesting, if logically less important at the moment.

But Dean is doing well. The uncertainty and nervous twitches that dominate most of his behavior with Castiel have disappeared. He moves swiftly and surely, clearly relying on his senses to alert him to danger and to keep track of Castiel. If Castiel slows for any reason, Dean also automatically slows, his eyes continuing to track the road and the ranch house up ahead. This is Dean Winchester as hunter, not captor – and not lover. It's a fascinating view of the man that Castiel simply didn't experience while he was held captive.

Perhaps it should frighten him to see such focus and drive in a man who once put that drive to keeping him prisoner, but it doesn't. It reassures him that Dean is recovering. That life on the outside is good for him, a stabilizing force. This wasn't Sam's chosen life, but Dean chose the life of a hunter repeatedly, even if sometimes it hurt.

That certainty shows now.

Dean holds up a hand and then points down. Castiel immediately flattens himself to the ground, and Dean does the same.

A mere moment later, someone leaves the back of the ranch house, cursing as he stumbles down the back porch. He's got a hood up and gloves on his hands, and he bangs the door on the way out, not locking it. He heads for a nearby shed, disappearing inside.

"One's awake," Castiel whispers, almost too low to be heard.

Dean nods, not answering.

The vampire, still carefully avoiding direct sun, leaves the shed and mutters, loud enough to be heard, "Sucks being the only one here, having to check that damn – " and his words go unintelligible. He slams the door.

Dean looks back at Castiel, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.

Castiel shrugs slightly.

Dean takes out his machete, and Castiel does the same. They wait another fifteen minutes to make sure he's not coming back out and then approach the back door.

This is probably the riskiest part of the operation. They don't know for sure what they're going to find. This vampire crew is considerably more sophisticated than the others that Dean has dealt with, and while sleeping during the day is a pretty strong vampire habit, it's not a rule. They will wake up. And Dean and Castiel are going in more or less blind. They'll be walking into the kitchen, not the rooms, and it's unlikely they'll feed during their sleeping hours, so this is the best spot to enter – but that only offers a likely outcome.

Dean has the machete in one hand, a syringe in the other. His gun is holstered, though not clipped in. Castiel's a mirror of him.

Castiel quickly opens the door, and then gets a syringe in his free hand. Dean nods once at him and pushes it open.

It's dark, but within a few moments an empty kitchen greets them. A few more seconds, and Castiel can make out splatters of blood on the floor and counters, dried. A table has empty pouches of donated blood, which makes him raise his eyebrows, though it makes sense if they fear bringing victims here because it's one of their central bases.

Dean clears the kitchen, while Castiel keeps an eye on their rear.

The schematics from the local county office included the upgrades to get internet, so they know most of the lines are in what was more of a parlor room, that ultimately became an office. That's their destination.

Dean walks forward silently, Castiel following. A few dusty, empty hallways is all that greets them on their way. For nearly a hundred feet they see no one. Castiel's surprised, if grateful. He wonders how long this base has been in use, and how important it is. The wood panels are old and dry with peeling paint. Corners are dusty. There's a half destroyed chair sitting in one hallway, and it looks like it's been there a while. Are vampires sloppy? Castiel knows the counting thing isn't real, but this is a mess.

Dean and Castiel freeze only once, when they hear sleepy voices that fade away.

The presumed office has a solid oak door. A careful, light test from Dean proves it's locked. Dean points at the lock and then at himself. Castiel nods and sets himself up as watch while Dean takes out his lockpicking tools and sets to work. After maybe a minute, the door clicks and opens.

Eyes still trained on the potential exits, Castiel lets Dean draw him into the office, which fortunately is empty of sleeping vampires. Dean shuts the door behind him, locking it again. Then he looks up at Castiel and whispers, "Well, that went smoothly."

"Don't jinx it," Castiel says with a smile, and then turns.

The office is pretty large, and has an impressive oak desk on one end that has nothing but a laptop on it. The walls are covered in United States maps, many of them written on, and one with several dozen differently colored pins. A few detailed maps of a few specific states are crammed into a corner.

"You get the computer," Dean says quietly, nodding at the laptop. "I'll grab pictures of everything else."

Castiel turns on the computer, waiting impatiently for the Windows logo to go away. Apparently vampires aren't Mac users, which is fortunate for Castiel since his virus won't work on one. Unsurprisingly, a password is needed. Castiel ignores that, putting the usb drive into the port. The program should run automatically, copying all the files on the computer. It's a copy of a virus an unsub once used to gain access to his victims' lives, and something he found online. It didn't take much for Castiel to be able to follow the similar routes and find the program again, this time used for hunting nonhumans.

The screen goes black, and text scrolls across the screen in DOS as the virus does its work. Ten percent complete.

Castiel looks up to see Dean finish taking photos with his phone. He eyes the maps, wondering what Dean is seeing. To Castiel, it looks there are permanent hideouts and temporary ones – he can recognize the symbol for the temporary haunts, because he knows the areas and killings, some of which the FBI caught and some of which Dean did. He can't figure out why some are temporary, though, until he sees the numbers next to those locations. Four months, two years, seven months, one year.

"Ages," Castiel whispers. "They're young."

Dean looks at him sharply.

"Training, Dean. You said vampire numbers were low, right? Then the young ones need to be trained to survive without being caught."

Dean's eyes widen. "Yeah," he whispers back. "The ones I killed were definitely younger. Easier targets."

"It makes sense. Train up the young ones to survive, increase numbers, and do it without endangering the central organization."

"Sick fuck," Dean murmurs, presumably speaking of the vampire leader. "There's more here, too. It'll take a while to figure this all out."

Castiel checks the laptop. Eighty percent complete.

A loud male voice sounds just outside the door.

Dean takes out his machete and motions for Castiel to get down. "Hide!" he hisses at Castiel, even though they previously agreed not to talk where overly sensitive vampire ears could hear them.

Castiel hides behind the desk. He can hear the lock turn, and then the male voice saying, "Fucking children, why do I have to do all the work?" There's a jangle of keys.

He's talking to himself, Castiel realizes. He waits to hear the door close again, and then deliberately stands up, gaining the vampire's attention.

A male vampire, over six feet tall, stares at him for a second. He starts forward, snarling, but before he can reach Castiel Dean takes action. He slams a syringe into the vampire's neck, pushing down the plunger, which causes the vampire to groan rather loudly and stagger. Dean drops the empty syringe and uses his now free hand to assist his right hand in swinging his machete.

The vampire's head leaves his shoulders. It falls with a thump. There's no noise indicating someone is coming to investigate.

Dean pants, staring at Castiel. "I told you to fucking hide!"

"You needed a distraction," Castiel points out calmly. "If he's looking at me, he's not looking for you." One hundred percent complete. Castiel takes out the usb drive. "We can go."

"Don't fucking disobey me again," Dean snarls, quickly patting down the dead vampire's body. He finds nothing besides the keys, not even a wallet.

"Not here," Castiel whispers back. He stuffs the usb drive into his pants and then goes to the door, listening. Dean does the same, but oddly enough he settles a hand on Castiel's back as he does so. Castiel just barely represses his surprised flinch.

Footsteps. Three voices, two male and one female. They don't sound stressed, which probably means they haven't smelled or heard Dean and Castiel.

"We need a distraction if the house is full of awake vampires," Castiel whispers. "Since that other vampire said he was alone, and this one was carrying car keys, it's possible a lot of them just got home. The one we just killed likely came to check on things. Those others might do the same."

"I'll be the distraction," Dean decides. "Take my phone and go. I'll figure something out."

"Dean, stop it," Castiel hisses. "Don't try to protect me. We need to do this together. What happens if they see me running out?"

Dean grits his teeth, but he reluctantly nods. "Ideas?"

"Well, we can't be certain we'll be caught."

Dean shakes his head. "It's too likely at this point. We were expecting sleeping vampires, remember? We've got awake ones. I never saw them be that active during the day, but all that movement … who the hell knows what they're doing?"

True enough. "Fire. Can't be any more pleasant than daylight, and with both, we'd be limiting their movements a great deal."

Dean smirks. "Sounds painful," he says, sounding glad of it. He pauses, thinking. "If we start a fire down the hallway and to the left, that cuts off the dormitory."

Castiel nods. "It will potentially expose us to the other side of the house, and whoever's there, but I agree that's our best initial spot. Do you have anything –"

Dean takes out a flask and a lighter. "Not alcohol in here, but it'll burn even better."

"I'll watch your back," Castiel promises, hefting his own machete.

Dean nods, and then presses back against the door. Castiel doesn't copy him, instead waiting for Dean to act. There's more voices, but Dean doesn't move. Castiel represses the urge to take over or make orders – Dean is listening, and he's agreed to Castiel's plan. He has to wait and trust Dean to make the correct choice for the situation. Voices come and go, but Dean stays still.

It takes nearly three full minutes, but Dean motions for Castiel to watch his back, opens the door and is out within a few moments. Castiel is on his heels, but the hallway is empty. Dean runs lightly to the right and is splashing the flask's content on the old, wood flooring and wall panels, then flicks on the lighter and drops it. He takes out his machete as flames burst to life, and looks intensely into Castiel's eyes. "Now we run, killing anything in our way."

With red, licking flames as their backdrop, they run the way they came. Dean outpaces Castiel, and Castiel lets him. They have maybe two hundred feet before they hit the kitchen, and then daylight. They just have to get through the gauntlet.

They don't make it far.

Three vampires burst out of a door, their teeth visible. Dean's swinging almost before Castiel can react, but it's a blind slash meant to disguise him bringing up his gun and firing the special dead man's blood bullets. Dean fires twice, hitting twice. Castiel nets the third with two shots to the chest, standard protocol. The vampires are shocked that it hurts, that it slows them, and Dean beheads one. Castiel has to holster his weapon to behead the other – it's the first time he's beheaded someone, and slashing through flesh and bone is a dizzying shock for a second – and the third is on the floor, groaning, not reacting well at all to the blood.

Dean hacks at his neck twice before succeeding.

"Dean," Castiel says in warning. "Is that fire ahead of us?" He can see flickering shadows of an old chair that he saw in the hallway out earlier. The kitchen is just beyond that.

Rather than answer Dean goes to look, and then returns to Castiel, who is staring at the flames slowly consuming the hallway behind them. "Yeah."

They can hear vampires moving and shouting out orders, echoing through walls. "I bet this is planned as a reaction to being found. They're getting rid of evidence," Castiel says, no longer bothering to whisper.

"And us," Dean says grimly.

Castiel quickly thinks over the schematic he'd memorized. One of the rooms they'd passed was adjoined to another, with access to another hallway. He can see Dean coming to the same conclusion, because he says, "Come with me," and pulls Castiel to that door. He doesn't pick the lock, just kicks it in.

Screams from beyond the kitchen – probably the other direction of the hallway, curving around the side of the building - stops Castiel from immediately following Dean through the door. They sound … human. Disconcertingly so. "Dean, stop."

Dean can clearly hear it, too, because he glances in that direction before returning to Castiel, eyes intense. "Cas, we can't stop, we have to get out of here. Even if they're just planning on burning the building down, we die by fire a lot easier –"

"They sound human, Dean." Castiel bolts down the on fire hallway, listening and slowing as he can feel the heat of the fire. He hears, very faintly, people calling for help, pleading with whoever is listening not to let them die.

"They're probably vamps," Dean insists. "We need to go." He pulls on Castiel's arm, but Castiel resists.

"Dean, I hear children," Castiel says, turning to look at Dean.

Dean immediately stops what he's doing and looks. They're separated from the voices calling for help by the fire the vampire set, which means whoever is being held is in the part of the ranch house that was half barn, and used to keep animals during bad weather. It would make sense. And if people are dying in there, if children are dying in there from a fire that wouldn't have been set if Dean and Castiel hadn't come here, then Castiel just can't leave. Some of those cries are too high to be from an adults.

"Cas, we can't save them," Dean says gently, pain in his eyes.

"We have to try!" Castiel snaps, moving forward. "We can get blankets, or something, and run through and see if we can't –"

"The fire is growing," Dean interrupts. "We can't reach them. Maybe from the outside, but not like this. There's no way we're getting through."

"Dean, they'll be dead in minutes!"

"So will we!"

"I can't –"

Dean doesn't bother to argue this time. He grabs Castiel's arm and when Castiel resists his pull, he almost instantly puts Castiel into a painful wrist lock that simultaneously moves him behind Castiel and uses his advantage in position to push Castiel into the room.

Just by sheer force, Castiel can't effectively fight back. But as Dean releases his wrist, Castiel falls into the past.

 _Dean is dragging him down a concrete hallway. Castiel's feet are barefoot, scraped and bleeding from being forcibly moved across the hard floor. The slight weight of the cuff is absent, and his ankle feels bare and free, but that feeling is overlaid with the smell of blood, his own and Dean's, and his wrists hurt from Dean's weight on him earlier, and his head is pounding, blackness flickering at the edges of his vision. He's gasping for air, half in effort and half in panic._

Fire flickers at the edge of his vision. He's fully dressed, his booted feet slide across the floor, and he can smell Dean and smoke. Dean isn't holding his wrists, and that feels weird, instead he's got his arms locked around Castiel's chest.

 _He's begging Dean to stop. He goes limp, resisting the only way he still can. "Don't do this to me. Please don't do this."_

"Fuck! Shit! Cas, I can't drag you out of here and hold my gun. Cas! You need to fucking walk!"

Some distinct instinct causes Castiel to obey. He gets to his feet, and this time when Dean grabs his forearm and pulls, he follows.

 _"I love you, Cas. I love your fight, I love how strong you are, but I need you here –"_

"Cas, I need you!" Dean shouts in his ear, and most of the sights and smells of Castiel's last escape attempt fade. They don't go away, but they fade into the background as the present takes hold.

Castiel is disoriented, but he nods at Dean. His heart is racing, his palms sweaty, but his mind is locking back into place. He can still smell his own blood, despite not having a cut on him, but he can ignore that. "I'm –" back? "I'm here." He pulls out his gun, blinking rapidly. The smoke is starting to drift, making his eyes water. He can't save those children he heard. They failed that before they even arrived. "Vampires. I'll shoot any I see."

Dean's green eyes are still wide with panic and worry, but he doesn't argue. Castiel lost track of where they are in the ranch house, so he just follows Dean down a dizzying amount of doorways. Vampires also looking to escape pop up from time to time. Castiel shoots three, six still left in the clip. Dean shoots two, still primarily concerned with leading Castiel out of what is rapidly becoming a death trap. The vampires stagger, but for the most part they don't stop to behead any. Though the fire isn't visible anymore, the smell of smoke is getting stronger, and Castiel can hear upper floors collapsing in big crashes.

There's not much warning before they suddenly burst into sunlight. Dean keeps urging him along for several hundred feet before letting him stumble to a stop.

Still feeling disoriented and slightly separated from his body, Castiel looks back at the ranch house.

It's all on fire. The roof is burning, and he can see huge collapsed sections. The sound of cars leaving is loud, as living vampires flee. It's not organized, from what Castiel can tell from this distance – the entrance to the house is over a thousand feet away, and he can't see that directly, only the road leading to it – but SUV's with dark windows race away.

"The children?" Castiel asks numbly, wanting to make sure.

Dean shakes his head, jaw clenched, and points to a collapsed section. "We need to get out of here. It might take twenty or thirty minutes for firefighters to respond, but we can't afford to wait in case neighbors come." There's a huge column of smoke rising from the fire, probably visible miles away.

Castiel looks at Dean, his mouth dry. He coughs. "I'm sorry."

Dean looks at him sharply, eyes confused, but he doesn't ask. "This way."

They hike through more brush, both sweating by the time they finally reach the car. No one follows. They must be more concerned with burning evidence and escaping than catching the two hunters who got into their base. Dean shoves the car keys into Castiel's hand. "You drive."

Castiel doesn't argue, even though he still feels shaky and like he can fall into a flashback at any moment. He can still smell blood, and despite being outside, the filtered air of the bunker. Dean looks just as shaken. He's pale, and his hands are trembling as he puts the safety on his gun on. He collapses into the passenger's side of the bench seat. Castiel guns the engine and pushes the Impala hard, not caring they're riding over dirt road. By the time he pulls onto the highway, he's gotten used to how this car responds and feels steadier.

He fucked up. Massively. First by slowing down their potential escape – and rescue, for that matter – by arguing, and then by putting both himself and Dean in danger by flashing back to the failure of his third escape attempt. He hands tighten on the wheel as anger begins to burn. He's never had a flashback on the job. Not once. He's ashamed it happened now. But Dean's hands on him … It was everything from his nightmares, even though he knows, now, that logically Dean did what was necessary to keep Castiel moving in a house literally on fire.

Castiel feels sick. He wants to throw up. Instead, he shifts from the road to Dean.

Dean is crying. He notices Castiel looking almost immediately, and turns his head to meet Castiel's gaze. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

"You were right," Castiel says evenly. "We had to get out of there."

Dean shakes his head. "I hurt you. I hurt you so fucking bad. I know what a flashback looks like, Cas." And he curls up in his seat like he's covering a gunshot wound, and he looks as if he's in about as much pain. His crying doesn't get loud, he doesn't scream, he just curls in like he wants to die, right then and there.

Castiel swerves wildly off the road, into high grass. He's probably killing the suspension and potentially really damaging the car, but he doesn't care. He puts the car in park and kills the engine.

"Dean …" He reaches out, gently.

Dean shrinks back without even looking up. He looks like a shell of a man. "I'm a monster," he whispers.

Castiel withdraws, thinking. He puts aside the hunt, the failure, the screams of children. Dean has seen horror. That is not the cause of the present problem. Castiel, too, has seen horror.

Personal horror can strike just as deep as a catastrophic impersonal one.

He is still damaged by his captivity. Maybe it doesn't show, maybe most of it is scar tissue that hurts when it's stretched. When the right moment is presented. Castiel hadn't thought of that. He'd thought he was past that, that he was fine, that he could handle Dean, he could handle anything. He was wrong. A few weeks ago Castiel let Dean hold him, heard Dean ask him not to break him, and Castiel had made that promise to himself, because Dean is clearly fragile. Dean's always been fragile, really. Broken and twisted up so the knife wounds that life has given him don't kill him outright, they just hurt, bleeding silently into the dark.

Dean is still damaged by Castiel's captivity. It's part of the reason Castiel left.

Can Castiel really ever say that any interaction with Castiel can be healthy? For either of them?

Castiel turns away, the feeling of helplessness rising in him like a tide. He can see smoke rising in the air in the rear view mirror. He swallows, throat clicking, and then turns on the engine and wheels out back onto the road. He doesn't stop until he reaches the motel. He doesn't speak as he parks, turns off the car, goes to the passenger side door and drags Dean out. He doesn't look at Dean as he pushes him into the motel room and puts him on the bed. Dean half collapses, like a puppet with its strings cut.

He has a choice in this moment.

Dean is sitting on the bed, if one could call his posture sitting.

Castiel strips off his sweat-soaked outer layers of clothing until he's in his t-shirt and boxers. The motel room is cool, and he shivers as he approaches the bed, kneeling first and then undoing Dean's laces. He pulls off his boots, then his socks. When Castiel starts to strip off the coat Dean's wearing, Dean finally looks up at him, his expression hopeless and confused. Castiel waits a moment, meeting Dean's glazed eyes, but when Dean says nothing he just keeps stripping off Dean's layers. He doesn't take off Dean's pants, but otherwise he takes off almost everything. Dean doesn't resist.

He pulls back the rough blanket on top of the bed along with the top sheet. He hooks one arm under Dean's armpit, settling on the bed behind him, and then pulls Dean backwards on his knees. Dean half-heartedly cooperates, so Castiel isn't pulling Dean's full weight. When Castiel's back is against the headboard, he settles against it and lays Dean on his chest, between his legs.

"Cas? What are you doing?" Dean whispers.

The truth is, being free has been nearly all he had hoped it would be, when he still had that cuff on his ankle. He saw his brother again, rediscovered his relationships with his teammates at the BAU, had the freedom to go anywhere, anytime he pleased. He could go to the coffee shop and just sit. He could take walks at four in the morning. He takes and helps solves difficult cases. He has purpose. He has family. He has friends.

But he is no longer the same person who passed out from a chokehold in his apartment, more than three years ago. His mind suffered. In a way, his mind broke. Is Castiel still mentally unwell to put himself willingly into a situation where his mind can so clearly remember those hurts? Those scars? Not to mention the possible danger of being caught with Dean, and losing most of what he fought for, including his job and potentially damaging his relationship with his brother.

The man who he holds in his arms did it to him. Ruthlessly but unintentionally, purposefully but without a desire to harm. Dean did it out of pain. Just pain.

But lack of intent does not mean lack of result. Morgan told him that, and he was right. To walk back into Dean's life is the height of insanity. It's putting his own mental health at risk. To hunt with him is to put his physical and psychological safety at risk, because while he truly believes Dean would do whatever it took to keep Castiel physically unharmed – and mentally, as far as he could without allowing the former – Dean is still, in some ways, broken. Not a danger to Castiel directly, no. But he is who he is, and Castiel cannot forget the past, even if he wishes sometimes that he could. Any interaction between the two of them is going to be fraught with pain, especially in the beginning, as they test each other's limits and their own.

Is it worth it?

Can he do it without breaking Dean into pieces? Is it kinder to not put Dean through this, and let him live an unhappy, lonely life where he's not broken further?

"Cas."

"I don't know," Castiel finally answers.

Dean shifts in Castiel's arms, so he's less a lump of a body plastered against Castiel, and more a person being held. "I love you."

It doesn't change anything, for all that its but one truth among many; Castiel says, "I love you, too."


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N** : This is not the last chapter. I'm hoping to have the next chapter out in three weeks, but I don't know if I'll make that. Either way, I have every intention of finishing this story.

I'd also like to note that all my readers are welcome to their strong opinions about the story, both positive and negative. I have no problem with people expressing what they think. It will not bother me, so don't worry about that. :)

 **Warnings (spoilers!)** : Discussion of violence, including (super brief) death of a child. Discussion of rape and dubious consent. Possibly dubious consent to physical contact, depending on your point of view.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (I've officially reached hyphens)

"I'll take care of him, I promise," Castiel says to Savannah, who is still staring at him suspiciously from the front door of the house Morgan and Savannah share, a tiny two-story that Morgan renovated during Castiel's captivity. It's blue and cheery, and Castiel rather thinks it's the perfect place for the both of them. Though right now he'd like to at least pinch Morgan, who is leaning on Castiel's shoulder and not saying a word.

"Just remember that leg can't hold any weight," Savannah warns. "And no alcohol. He's still on pain meds."

"No weight on his leg, no alcohol," Castiel repeats. "I'll treat him like glass."

Morgan snorts but doesn't object.

Savannah gives Morgan a light kiss, rubs her now very large belly, and goes back inside.

"Don't crash the car," is the first thing Morgan says.

"I can drive just fine," Castiel replies, irritated. He starts to move Morgan, letting Morgan put most of his weight on him. "I passed the FBI's pursuit driving test, I think I can get you from one place in town to another."

"You hit the curb last week."

"Keep talking and I'll dump you on your ass, foot or no foot."

Morgan grins, but wisely shuts up. Castiel gets him safely in the car, though maneuvering around the medical boot is a hassle. Castiel pauses a second after shutting the passenger door, thinking about the conversation that's coming. They're meeting Dean in yet another random motel room, to more or less debrief. All Morgan knows is that they got some information and paid a heavy price for it. Castiel has a file in a messenger bag that shows that.

Castiel and Dean spent the night in that motel room, Castiel holding Dean and neither of them speaking. In the morning, Castiel told Dean not to hurt himself, and Dean nodded and promised, eyes dull, and Castiel had to trust in that. They've only communicated via text since then. Brief and to the point. At least he knows Dean is still alive. Dean's never directly been suicidal, though he's referenced it in the past, but it still worries Castiel.

He gets into the car after a minute, breathing deeply. Morgan gives him a long look but doesn't ask.

Dean meets them at the motel door. He looks more pulled together than the last time Castiel saw him. Well-rested. He's not pale, no longer shocky. Even the next morning, Castiel caught Dean trembling off and on. He's relieved to see that's no longer the case. They were both destroyed in that moment, but Dean is far more vulnerable to collapse than Castiel is. Now, anyway.

Dean nods at them both, expression calm, and steps aside to let them in.

This motel room is a bit more equipped than the others Castiel has met Dean in, having a large desk and two comfortable chairs to sit in. Castiel puts Morgan on the bed, where his foot can be elevated, and explains to Dean, "He's healing." Then he takes one comfortable chair, slinging his messenger bag on the desk.

"Ankle injuries are a bitch," Dean says, managing a smile and sitting as well.

"So what happened?" Morgan asks, scratching at the edge of his medical boot. "Castiel kept telling me to wait for this, so spill it."

Castiel can't meet Dean's eyes, but he begins talking. He goes through initially meeting with Dean, telling Morgan what happened between each checkup call so he can keep track of the timing, all the way to getting trapped in a burning house with roaming vampires. He falters then, and Dean seamlessly takes over, explaining in a totally neutral tone how he and Castiel argued over whether to try to rescue to the civilians, and then Dean putting Castiel into a wrist lock to get him moving.

"What kind of wrist lock?" Morgan asks, interrupting for the first time.

"A harmless one, the kind we're trained to use on uncooperative drunks," Castiel answers.

Morgan nods, then turns to Dean. "Go on."

Dean looks away. "Cas had a flashback. About me. I had to drag him out of the building."

"I see," is all Morgan says. But he stops scratching his foot, body language going reserved.

Castiel clears his throat. "I'm not sure we should have gone in as we did."

"In my experience, calling the police doesn't do much," Dean says reluctantly, either thinking that Castiel isn't referring to his own flashback or choosing to ignore it. "Unless the place is obviously farming people for blood, a polite person at a door is enough to delay suspicion. Nests of vampires is not the first conclusion police leap to."

"We would have had to do something to guarantee a raid. In the middle of nowhere." Hardly easy.

Morgan looks at Castiel. "Like another Waco, this time with vampires?"

"I'm not sure there's a perfect solution to the problem," Castiel admits. "In order to get that kind of response guaranteed, we'd have to convince either the local police that multiple people are in imminent danger, or the FBI that there's a terrorist cell in place."

Morgan grimaces. "SWATing might work."

"What?" Dean asks.

"People will spoof a call from a building, claiming that a murder is taking place in order to get a local SWAT team to respond," Castiel explains. "Since nothing is actually occurring but the police think there is, there's a danger to the people inside. It's a way of anonymously trying to get someone killed. But that's a good point – if we can make a call look like it's coming from a vampire nest and claim multiple murders are ongoing, that gives the police reasonable cause to knock the door down."

"But we'd have to know that there were victims inside," Dean says, "or we alert the nest and they disappear. Then more people die."

"And even then, we're putting officers at risk since they have no idea they're dealing with vampires," Morgan adds. "Even telling them that the potential murderers are on PCP won't really prepare them for what they'll be going in for. Castiel, Dean … there's no way you could have known there were victims inside."

Castiel opens his messenger bag and takes out a file. He tosses it onto the bed, and Morgan picks it up and opens it. He reads silently, then holds it out for Dean.

"How many?" Dean asks grimly, taking the file.

"Depending on how many vampires also died, eight to ten. One child. It appears there were locked in a room, with all but one exit thoroughly sealed off."

Dean closes his eyes and drops the file, letting his head fall into his hands. "Fuck."

Morgan looks at Dean with something like sympathy in his eyes. Castiel wonders what's going through Morgan's head – he's obviously keeping most of his thoughts silent, not judging Castiel and Dean's actions and decisions. Castiel doesn't know that doing anything differently would have helped, and he's definitely had cases like that where children ended up dead and there was literally nothing they could have done differently, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. That it doesn't haunt him. That Dean can so clearly feel the same reminds Castiel that yes, Dean has a job that he takes as one – he hunts. The kind of investigative fellowship he'd tried with the Baltimore detectives reminds him that Dean is, in a weird way, an unofficial member of law enforcement. He faces much the same things they do, but without public support.

To his surprise, Morgan addresses Castiel first. "Where'd you get this file? It's the full police report."

"I got it under my own name," Castiel says. "It should be fine, and there's no reason to get something like this on your spotless record when mine's already tarnished. Some of the bodies had 'teeth prosthetics' so I can explain it away as connected to our case, if they look."

Dean straightens. "Wait. You don't have a spotless record? What does that mean?"

"They've noticed some odd behavior on my part," Castiel admits, still not looking his way directly. "Hunting related."

To Castiel's surprise, Dean sounds devastated by this news. His voice is hoarse as he says, "Cas, I'm so sorry – I never meant to get you involved in this."

Castiel realizes they've never talked about it – Dean revealing the truth to Castiel. "Would it be easier not to know? Yes. But I joined law enforcement because I couldn't look away, Dean. I'm not angry about it, and I don't blame you. If I can help save more lives this way, then it's worth it."

"I feel the same way, for the record," Morgan adds, but he's looking at Castiel this time.

Castiel smiles a bit in acknowledgement, since he's the one who inadvertently got Morgan into this mess.

"Next time something like this comes up, we'll plan better," Morgan continues. "But this? Was no one's fault."

Dean grimaces and looks away.

"Dean, would you mind giving me and Castiel a moment? I'd walk out, but –"

"Of course, yeah," Dean says immediately. "I'll, uh, get a soda." He stands up.

"No, let him stay," Castiel says, having a good idea of why Morgan wants the privacy.

"You had a flashback, do you really want to say what it was in front of him?"

Castiel looks at him evenly. "My third escape attempt. Not that it matters. The fact that I had one at all means I can't be proper backup to Dean."

"You've never had a flashback at work," Morgan observes in a tone far too neutral to actually be.

"I know."

Dean swallows painfully, staring down at his hands. He walks towards the far corner of the room and leans against the wall. His version of getting away, Castiel supposes.

"Dean still needs help, though, if other hunters can't come through. Once you're on your feet, I was hoping you could take that over," Castiel says. "At least for now."

"Of course," Morgan replies. He doesn't say that's what he always wanted, but then he probably doesn't have to.

Castiel's eyes slide over to look at Dean. "I still want to see you, Dean."

Dean jerks. "Why?"

"That's better said in private. I just – I'm not rejecting you, Dean. This is just the safest course."

"Okay, Cas. Whatever you want," Dean says quietly.

Castiel wants to say something more, but he can't find the words.

They split up, each with copies of the computer files from the ranch house.

* * *

The copied files turn out to be a goldmine.

Listed are the planned locations of young nests, some financial accounts that Castiel and Morgan get anonymously flagged for organized crime, and a very long list of real names. About half are people who fell off the grid or just went missing. Judging from the people on the list, it's not of victims, but freshly made vampires. The vampire leader, Kate, mostly chose people who wouldn't be missed but would respond strongly to the idea of a gang or a cult. Dean does most of the follow up there, calling family members and finding out information about the missing people/new vampires. Some theorizing back and forth between Dean and Morgan results in another anonymous message sent to the tech department of various missing person organizations, telling them to check their security, even on closed cases. If they can get rid of the recruitment lists of disaffected young people, that'd help.

That said, Kate isn't stupid. The nests listed on the computer scatter, often leaving behind fresh bodies, or in a few heartening cases, live victims. The FBI is back on the fake vampire case, and the BAU is watching local police departments deal with the sudden influx of people with prosthetic teeth running around.

Dean still wants to kill Kate. Cut off the head, he says, and the rest will be easy pickings for him and his hunter buddies.

In the meantime, though, they have to wait for an opportunity.

* * *

Castiel pants into the cold air, and it hurts.

Morgan's still staring at the empty spot where the malevolent ghost was just seconds ago, but after a few more moments he shakes himself out of it and stumbles to Castiel's side. The open field is at least a mile from anywhere else, and the fire burning a collection of bones settled in the shadow of a small hillside probably won't attract much attention. He and Morgan didn't exactly take precautions, though, knowing the ghost had taken another young boy and they had only hours before the ghost would kill him.

Morgan's hand on Castiel's shoulder is warm. "You okay?"

Castiel nods, but grunts when he tries to lever himself to his feet. "My ribs are killing me."

"He seemed solid enough when he wanted to be," Morgan says, running his hands down Castiel's sides, checking for an obvious broken bone.

"Dean always said evil spirits are a bitch," Castiel says wryly.

Morgan flashes him a quick smile, then looks around. "We'd better get of here. And come up with an explanation for your ribs."

"Your ankle okay?"

"Better than your ribs," Morgan replies, getting his shoulder under Castiel's arm. It makes Castiel's ribs ache, but Morgan is being careful not to shift them too much while still providing stabilization. How does one get broken ribs when not being thrown by a suspect? Castiel can't remember the last severe injury he got that wasn't on the job. And of course, this isn't 'on the job' even if he and Morgan just permanently solved the case.

Along with having to endure some teasing about his clumsiness, Castiel's going to endure at least another week or two of fruitless searching for the unsub.

"I just realized we're still stuck here," Morgan says suddenly, halfway to the car. "We can't even tell them the case is over."

"Welcome to my life," Castiel replies.

Morgan laughs into the dark.

The car is a welcome sight, to say the least. Castiel carefully slumps into the passenger seat, not bothering with his seatbelt. Morgan gets the driver's side and turns on the car, pulling away from the empty lot. Castiel contemplates an explanation of slipping and falling into a railing. That would probably work. When he gives his suggestion to Morgan, Morgan agrees it's a suitable explanation. He calls up Hotchner and tells him Castiel's story, and says he's taking Castiel to the ER to have it checked out, the clumsy kid. "Reid is a kid. I am not a kid," Castiel objects.

Morgan just laughs at him, and Castiel rather thinks Morgan's on a bit of an adrenaline high.

After the ER gives him an x-ray and determines his ribs are cracked but not broken, Morgan sits next to his hospital bed and gives him a thoughtful stare.

"What?" Castiel finally asks.

"I know you're a thinker," Morgan says. "So think on this: you needed emotional intimacy with Dean in order to survive that bunker. You needed him. And I think you're still trapped in that mindset of thinking you need Dean to survive, because as soon as he was free that's what you've gone for. But you survived without him, Castiel. Think about that."

Castiel blinks at him.

"I haven't said anything about you wanting to keep talking to Dean, no," Morgan says to the unasked question. "But don't go into this without thinking it through first, from all the angles. And no matter how much you want it not to be, those eighteen months were traumatic for you. It hurt you, and I think it still does. It's just showing up differently."

"I understand," Castiel says gently. "Thank you."

Morgan nods, and that's the end of it.

* * *

Castiel has been throwing himself into work and avoiding the mental subject of Dean entirely. He and Dean still exchange texts, but Castiel hasn't asked for a meet, and of course Dean hasn't pushed it at all. The Saturday after his ribs are cracked, he sits down next to his window and forces himself to work through it.

Castiel has to make a choice. Either the rational one, or the emotional one. Rationally, he should separate himself from Dean and live a normal life, or as much as he can considering what he knows. Just because he and Dean share knowledge of the supernatural doesn't mean they have to remain in contact. Morgan, or any practically any hunter would do as a go-between. Looking at the statistics of abusive relationships, he should walk away and never return.

But emotionally, he wants to know Dean again. This new version, this safer version of Dean, that understands all he did and wants to make it right. That already took steps to turn the dangerous parts of himself into harmless pieces that would never strike out against Castiel again. Dean regained his moral center. He's not happy, he's often depressed, but Dean functions because he knows he's doing the right thing. That keeps him going.

What is the right thing for Castiel? He knows the rational one is the correct choice, but it's not the one he wants. It's the safe choice, but not the one he wants. It's the healthy choice, but not the one he wants.

Why does he still want Dean?

The sun is setting when Castiel finally has part of an answer. Because he saw the good in Dean and could never go back after that. It's why even after all the fighting, the mere fact of his own kidnapping, Castiel didn't ever fully reject Dean. Yes, some of that was necessary for his own emotional and psychological survival, but not all of it. He needed human contact, even some level of physical contact, but by the end of his captivity his intimate relationship with Dean was the only bright point out of a whole sorry mess of psychological suffering. The isolation most of all. Enough of accepting Dean was his choice that he's still making that same choice – going back despite the abuse.

Maybe he never recovered. Not fully. Maybe he's still trapped in that mindset that he needs Dean in order to survive. Is that where this need comes from? Morgan thinks so.

Castiel rubs his forehead, watching the city lights flick on outside his window. "Fuck."

There's another factor. Dean asked Castiel not to break him, and Castiel kept going with attempting a friendship even after that. He has a responsibility towards Dean not to reject him, because if he was going to, he should have done it before. He doesn't believe Dean would blame him for walking away, but he would definitely blame himself.

Castiel has choices. Choices with consequences.

He gets up and goes to the now familiar pot, empty of dust. He turns on the phone, but there's no new messages. After a second of hesitation, he types out to Dean's number: _I'd like to meet. Where are you for the next two weeks?_

Dean responds after about five minutes. _Nearby. Got a pukwudgie yesterday. Still waiting on more info to go on with vamps. Just give me a time and a place._

Castiel hesitates. Soon, before his ribs heal, but not too soon. _Tuesday after next. You pick the place._ Ten days or so.

Ten minutes later, Dean texts him the name of a motel.

Castiel smiles, glad in spite of everything, and puts the cell back into the pot.

* * *

A hot summer has turned into an early fall. Castiel's walking in his neighborhood, at three in the morning, with his gun holstered under a light coat. A few faint stars show through the city lights, but the slight cloudiness makes for a night-long twilight. It reminds him of the witching hour, of the belief in the supernatural presence of certain times of night. He wonders how much of that is true. Spellcasting sources, he supposes, would tell him. He doesn't take out his phone to check. He sticks his hands in his pockets, and keeps walking.

It has been three years, ten months since that day in October. Much colder then, compared to now.

Castiel finds himself thinking about that day a lot more than he used to. The initial terror he felt when Dean came up behind him in his apartment, his arm around Castiel's throat. It doesn't give him the same visceral sick feeling that it used to, that much is true. When he remembers that event, he's not just thinking of his own experience, but also Dean's – Dean thinking that he's only going to take Castiel for a while, that he's not going to hurt him, that it will all be fine. Dean was wrong, but Dean didn't go into it with the substance of Castiel's fears, that he was going to die.

But strong emotion marks a memory. It spirals outward to everything that connects to it. When Castiel thinks of October 10th, he also thinks of his escape attempts. Of the day he finally escaped.

He'd been handling work, supernatural hunting, and something of a social life successfully for a year when he allowed himself to reconnect with Dean. He felt fine. Even emotionally balanced.

Seeing Dean stirred up powerful reactions, some positive and some negative. Castiel assumed he'd be able to handle that as easily as he was handling every other aspect of life he was juggling.

But Dean himself is an entirely different problem than the effects Dean has had on his life. All those emotional links and memory markers are still present, and they woke up completely in that burning ranch house.

But the thing about memory is that it's transmutable. Castiel has no intention of changing events, no. But associations, yes. People talk about rose-colored glasses. Castiel views his past through a lens largely marked by pain and struggle, and while that's true enough, he'd rather fix those dark lenses into something more clear. Less painted with the emotions of the time and just after.

Castiel turns around and heads home.

* * *

This motel, some fifty miles out of Castiel's way, is probably the weirdest Dean's chosen. Half of the lights in the name are out, and the entire thing looks like it was built in the seventies and never updated. Creepy clowns are painted on the side walls, for no apparent reason. Dean's in the room on the end, so Castiel gets a good look at the grimly smiling faces. He knocks on the door.

Dean answers almost immediately, flashing Castiel a quick smile. One of his fake ones that say he's uncomfortable and desperately trying to hide it. "Hey, Cas," he says, and lets Castiel in.

Two beds. Castiel picks the closest one, and waits until Dean sits on the other before saying, "I want to retrain my reactions to you."

Dean blinks and freezes halfway through getting settling down. "You want to what?"

"I had a flashback because my memories of you are still strongly associated with fear and pain," Castiel says matter-of-factly. "I no longer wish to view you that way, it doesn't represent the present, so I need to retrain my reactions."

"So you're … you're intellectualizing this. Turning this into a problem to solve with your big brain."

Castiel is the one to blink this time. "Well, yes."

"Us, this," Dean points between him and Castiel, eyebrows raised, "is fucked up because it's _fucked up_ , Cas."

Castiel doesn't know how to respond for several long seconds. He hadn't entirely expected resistance. "This is how my mind works. This is how I cope."

Dean holds up his hands. "I'm not saying it's wrong. Just, I feel like you want to deny what happened. And, y'know, that's not healthy. I mean, even I know that, and that's like – that's major, Cas."

"Dean," Castiel begins. He stops, bites his lip, and then says, "You kidnapped me, held me against my will, screwed to hell my ability to consent to anything with you. You used sexual coercion. All of that happened. In order for me to move past it, I can't deny it, or it's going to keep popping up in flashbacks and nightmares, and I don't want that, Dean. For myself as much as for keeping contact with you."

After a moment, Dean nods. He still looks uneasy, but his eyes are clear when he asks, "How can I help?"

Castiel takes a deep breath. "Be yourself. And give us both time and new experiences to rewrite the old ones. Talk to me, Dean. Let me get to know you again, and you to know me."

Dean looks skeptical, but he nods again. He looks around the room, twitchy, rubbing his lip and then tapping his leg, before finally returning his attention to Castiel. "You hungry?"

"I could go for some pizza," Castiel agrees.

"BBQ chicken?" Dean asks, going for the motel desk and looking for flyers, then grabbing his phone when he doesn't find what he's looking for.

"No, something else. Nothing tastes quite like yours, so I pick something new every time."

"Well," Dean says with a smirk, "regardless of my many flaws, I'm a damn good cook."

Castiel smiles at him. "Yes, you are."

Strangely, Dean looks discomfited. But he gives Castiel another quick smile, scrolling through results on his phone. "Oh, this place has some fancy ones. Creamy pesto chicken? Tuscan garlic chicken? Bacon chicken supreme?"

"The last one sounds good," Castiel says, which is true, but the pizza is also rather irrelevant. He does find Dean's twitchiness interesting, though. More interesting than concerning, at least right now, so he's going to just watch and interact. He waits through Dean making the order, to pick up.

"Fifty minutes," Dean says, putting his cell down. His main cell, not the burner. "So, um …"

Castiel gets up, toes off his shoes, and then settles on the bed again, with his back against the headboard. "Dean, relax."

"Cas, no offense, but I think that's kind of impossible."

"Right now, yes," Castiel agrees. "But relaxation is a matter of degree. So, relax. As much as is possible." He waves his hand at the other bed. "Take a more comfortable seat."

Dean sits obediently, still a bit wary, but he's trying his best. He doesn't take off his shoes, but he props himself up with pillows.

"Have you been to the bunker?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean says immediately. "That's where Anna took me, first thing."

Castiel clears his throat. "My garden?"

"Still alive," Dean says. "Before I left I did some major plumbing, got a water line set up to the outside, and then put the whole thing on a multi-season timer. Weeds everywhere, though."

"I saw the picture. The one you had on you when you turned yourself in. I – I didn't expect you to take care of my garden," Castiel says softly.

Dean blinks. "But it's yours. 'Course I would."

"Didn't it hurt?" Like every reminder of Dean hurt.

"Yeah," Dean says after a moment. "It hurt. But the good kind, most of the time. The way I remember Sam." Dean smiles faintly, sadly. There's a grief there, still, but an oddly experienced grief. No, a grief lived with for a long time, felt in the bones, and lived with as a fact of life. Very Dean, in a way. "It was beautiful when it bloomed, that's why I took the picture. All that work you put into it really paid off. It's like a little Eden, out there in the middle of nowhere."

"Thank you. For taking care of it." Castiel doesn't know why it matters so much, but it does.

"Yeah, of course. That, um, something you do? Garden?"

Castiel lets out a surprised huff of breath. "No. Not in the least. Until I took up that project, gardening was pulling weeds in my parents' backyard, which being on a large property was generally a pointless proposition. But after all that time, I realized how much I missed parks. Being outside with greenery. That's why I took it up." Castiel pauses. "I look at it differently now."

"Well," Dean says, "I guess that's one thing I didn't screw up."

"One thing, yes," Castiel says, searching for the self-loathing in those words and not quite finding it. But Dean's not looking at him either. "It wasn't all bad."

"Enough was."

Castiel gives the slightest nod. "But we don't need to rehash that, Dean. I think we've talked about that long enough."

Dean stiffens a bit, before relaxing again. He looks curious, like he didn't expect that reaction. "Okay. I – can I ask you questions? Since we're getting to know one another?"

"I reserve the right not to answer," Castiel says in warning. "But yes."

"How's Aditi?"

"Good," Castiel says, somehow surprised by the question. "She spends a lot of time with an elderly neighbor of mine. He's trained her to be practically a service dog."

"So she does something useful besides shedding hair all over the place?" Dean asks with a grin.

"And waking me up in the morning with her smelly dog breath, yes. But I enjoy having her, when I am home. She's good company." Castiel pauses. "Do you have anyone you talk to, Dean?"

Dean looks away. "Nah. Charlie was really the last person I spoke to regularly that wasn't a hunter, or about hunting." He raises his eyes, suddenly. "Not that I blame you for telling her. Shit, I kept you a secret from her for eighteen fucking months, dude. I'm surprised she didn't burn me alive. Or turn me in."

"I asked her not to," Castiel admits.

"What? Really?"

"I knew where you were by that point, Dean. I didn't want you in prison. Just – declawed."

"Makes sense," Dean says, no ire there. "I used her to get your files before."

"I am sorry for breaking off your one normal relationship."

"Well, I wasn't exactly being normal, so I don't have anyone to blame but myself," Dean says with a shrug. "Really, Cas. I'm not bitter about it. I miss her, and it sucks that she hates my guts, but she's got every reason to. Hell, the hunters I met through your pal James? They all knew the fucked up shit I did. They didn't want to talk to me either. I had to tell'em that me being out was your idea. For hunting." Dean scratches his head while Castiel struggles to come up with an answer.

Frankly, Castiel feels guilty for cutting Dean off from his connections, even though he had every reason to do so at the time. But now it seems like a barrier to Dean's continued mental health. Though Dean continuing to lie about his actions wouldn't really be helpful either, and for most people, they wouldn't accept Dean as is, with his past. Sam would, he's pretty sure, though not without a lot of anger. He wonders if Bobby Singer would have.

"But, you know, Cas. Hunting's really helped. Being out on the road a lot, for weeks at a time. I guess at some point those walls started closing in for me, too. Trapping you there. Now it's different, it's more like when Sammy was alive. Living on the road, eating diner food – and trust me after prison, diner food is fucking good – " Dean points at Castiel for emphasis, "all that stuff, it reminds me of the rest of the world. Of what being normal is like."

Uncertainly, Castiel says, "That's good."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, thanks. I didn't know if you wanted me back in, after, but you don't, do you?"

Castiel shakes his head, certain of that.

"Yeah. So, thanks for getting me out. It was good for me, to get my head screwed on straight, but I can't deny I love the freedom of the road." Dean gives Castiel a quirky, strange smile. "So don't feel bad for me. I've got a better life than I deserve."

Dean seems to be sincere. Castiel decides he has to take Dean's word for it, ultimately, and regretting past, necessary actions doesn't seem like a good way to move forward, either. So he needs to accept that. "So, did I ruin your baby's suspension?" he asks lightly.

Dean sits up. "Almost! If you weren't you, Cas," he says, shaking his head. "I found twigs in her undercarriage. Twigs, Cas!"

"I tend to think of cars as tools, to be discarded when they break," Castiel says lightly, shrugging.

The look on Dean's face suggests this is blasphemous. "Well, that explains your crappy car, I guess."

"My car isn't crappy," Castiel objects.

"Well, I don't know if the one you have now is, but your one before kinda says it probably is, Cas," Dean says, tilting his head.

"It's a tool," Castiel repeats.

"Like your gun?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

"That's different."

Dean laughs.

Castiel finds himself joining him. "Okay, I see your point." Castiel's certainly never named his primary weapon, but after years of carrying the same one, he's got an attachment to it. A sense of security, and certainty of reliability. "After so many years carrying my Glock, it'd be weird to go into a situation with something else."

Dean nods. After a moment of silence, he says, "You and Agent Morgan seem close. I mean, like good friends."

"We are," Castiel says easily. "He was there for me probably the most of anyone besides my brother, after I escaped. Which I suppose is the reason he got so suspicious about what I was up to, and followed me on a hunt."

"That's how he found out?"

Castiel realizes he never explained how Morgan knows about the supernatural. "Yes. I was after a creature usually not corporeal. He followed me in, got attacked in a way that was pretty hard to deny as supernatural, and then witnessed me killing it." Castiel shrugs. "He was pretty in shock at the time, but when I told him the story to give the others, he did exactly as I said. And we've been working together on anything suspicious ever since." He pauses, adds, "Even completed a hunt together, a few weeks ago."

"I'm glad you're not alone," Dean says quietly. "That's important."

"I hate endangering him, though," Castiel says, knowing Dean will understand. "He has a child coming, did you know that?"

Dean shakes his head. "Wife and kid? Yeah, that's hard." Dean scratches his head. "Out of curiosity, is that why you want to retrain your reactions to me? So you can take over this case?"

"Part of it. I have less to lose, less people to miss me," though of course Balthazar would be devastated, "so I feel like I should take more of the risk."

Dean, a little to his surprise, doesn't argue the point. He just nods. "Yeah, I get that. When I think about Dad hunting with two little kids stuck in a motel room – well, I dunno if I could do that."

"Your father was dangerously obsessed," Castiel says dryly. "There's a lot of things John Winchester did that I would not recommend." Though it's good that Dean can see that, too. Castiel thinks Dean got a lot of unhealthy behavioral patterns from his father.

Dean snorts, smirking. "You and Sam are going to get along great."

"You think so?"

"Both of you are nerds. Have issues with John Winchester. Way too smart for your own good." Dean spreads his hands, as if to say the rest is obvious.

The idea of meeting people in heaven is still an odd one to Castiel, so he doesn't reply, imagining it.

"I should probably go get that pizza," Dean says, standing up. "I'll be right back. Didn't want a delivery guy recognizing me or you or something."

Castiel nods. "I'll wait here."

Dean grabs his wallet, keys, and jacket. He gives Castiel an unreadable look before he leaves.

It's when the door shuts that Castiel realizes he's probably remembering the last time he left Castiel alone in a motel room. The act of leaving was psychologically one of the hardest Castiel's ever made. After eighteen months, being with Dean, staying put where Dean placed him, was the pattern of his life. Breaking that was hard. It helped to know that Dean was suffering, too, a constant fear of abandonment putting pressure on his mind, making him obsessively possessive. Castiel knew that if Dean survived Castiel's absence, he'd be better off for it, and it seems like that's true. Dean nearly said as much, talking about how the walls had closed in on him, too. Castiel is certainly a lot better off.

Still, it's important that Castiel wait here now. Free, of his own choice. Without Dean trying to make him do so.

When Dean returns, he freezes for a second when he sees Castiel still propped up against the headboard, watching something stupid on the television set.

"Smells good," Castiel says casually.

Dean smiles at him. "Yeah, it does." He hands Castiel one box, and dumps the second on the other bed. This time, he takes off his shoes, too, and then his jacket. He's in his socks when he climbs on the bed and opens the pizza box, immediately shoving a slice into his mouth. "S'good," he says in surprise.

Castiel eats more sedately, using napkins to keep his clothes and hands clean. "Hmm." Bacon.

Dean relaxes over the next hour. They watch mindless television together and talk about it, an echo of the room that became their den. Except Castiel can talk about commercials now, can say he actually missed them and is now back to hating them with passion. Dean laughs, if with some pain in his eyes. There's lots of little moments like that – some normal part of life that reminds Castiel of their painful past, or Dean experiencing the same thing. They pause for a second and then move on, but Castiel sees Dean note every single time.

"I should go," Castiel finally says. "Spend the night at home."

"Of course, yeah," Dean says.

"I have to carry my work cell, so I need to be more careful," Castiel explains. They'd only see a tower ping, but a tower ping overnight is probably not wise.

"I don't expect you to stay here," Dean says hesitantly.

Castiel nods awkwardly. "Right." He gets up and puts on his shoes, makes sure he has everything he needs.

Dean watches him with an oddly fond look on his face.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

Dean smiles at him. "I will."

He debates with himself for a few seconds, Dean silently watching, and then asks, "Can I hug you?"

"Always," Dean says without hesitation. He stands up, expression soft.

Castiel reaches for him and this time, Dean doesn't hold him lightly; it's a full hug, chest to chest, pressure against Castiel's skin. Castiel's feels his eyes prick with tears, and he withdraws a little bit, feeling embarrassed. Dean lets him go at once.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, scratching his head and taking a step back. "Before you go. There's something you should probably know."

"Yes?"

"My meetings with that psychologist I mentioned? That wasn't under medical privacy."

Castiel blinks. "What do you mean?"

"She wanted to study me as a serial killer. In exchange for that, I asked for her help with, you know, you. But I had to sign a waiver. So I'm thinking the feds have her notes."

This is an offer to see into Dean's mind. When Castiel initially heard about Dean's therapy, he'd been interested, but he didn't really expect to ever have access to it. Not that he does, precisely. He can't go and ask for it outright. Castiel is still keeping away from Dean's case in front of the FBI's watchful eyes. He doesn't know why Morgan didn't tell him about this, but he plans on asking. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean doesn't say 'I love you' this time. But it shows on his face anyway.

As Castiel drives home, he thinks he's feeling happy.

* * *

"Rise and shine, little brother!"

Castiel groans and pulls a pillow over his head. Five seconds later it's snatched away, and sunlight pounds against Castiel's eyelids. He reluctantly opens his eyes, to see Balthazar standing above him, smiling broadly.

"What are you doing here? It's Sunday –" Castiel checks the clock, "and eight in the morning. When did you get in?"

"I slept on the plane," Balthazar replies loftily. "Now make me breakfast."

Half an hour later, Castiel's fully awake, showered and dressed. Castiel's never been much of a morning person – Dean always got up earlier than him – but years of working really odd hours means that he adapts fairly easily to needing to be awake. And he wasn't up that late or drunk last night, just actually taking a night completely off for once. From both his day job and hunting. Dean emailed both him and Morgan some new information on the vampire nests being reestablished, but it wasn't urgent.

"Good morning," Castiel says to his brother.

Balthazar is sitting at the kitchen table. "About time."

"You know I don't like mornings, Bal. You want eggs?" Castiel has two dozen waiting to be used. He opens the fridge, pondering what else is in there. "Milk?"

"Sure," Balthazar says.

Castiel gets out what he needs and puts said items on the counter. "So what made you take a red-eye flight to Virginia?"

"You know it's been too long since we've seen each other," Balthazar says. "Especially since you broke up with your boyfriend."

Castiel breaks another egg in the pan and looks over his shoulder. "Is that what this is about?"

"He was nice," Balthazar protests. "And you're acting like it wasn't a big deal."

It took months before Castiel stopped missing Stephen, but he doesn't want to say that. "It was a big deal, but it was also coming. It just wasn't going to work out. He's better off with someone with a normal job."

"Is that what you think?" Balthazar asks, a spark of sadness in his blue eyes.

"It's a reality of being in law enforcement," Castiel says, wanting to correct whatever emotional detour Balthazar wants to go on. He stirs the eggs so they'll be scrambled, watching as they begin to clump up under the heat. "Not necessarily something to do with me personally, or him for that matter."

Balthazar frowns. "So you're saying it's not about that psycho."

"It's not," Castiel says flatly. "It wasn't. Not for me. How about you?" he asks, an edge to his voice.

Balthazar lets out his breath explosively. "Did you really expect me to stay away when that psycho is loose?" Balthazar demands. "I didn't come immediately when he escaped because you kept telling me not to, but it's been months, Cassie." He shifts in his seat, tapping his fork on his empty plate. "He came to you before."

"He hasn't this time," Castiel lies. So many lies. He grabs Balthazar's plate and another for himself. "I'm fine, Bal. He's not coming for me. I don't know what he's doing, but it's not about me this time."

Balthazar rolls his eyes. "You still think he's not dangerous."

"I'd never mistake Dean for being harmless," and that, at least, is pure truth, "but he's not dangerous to me, no. At least I don't think so. And the BAU more or less agrees."

"Do they really?" Balthazar asks. "They'd say that if I asked?"

"According to Morgan, their current profile says he's still obsessed with me, but unlikely to take action. Based on his psychological records from his time in prison." Castiel splits up the eggs between the two of them and dumps some ketchup on both. Then he sits, daring his brother to actually go and ask with his gaze.

Balthazar slumps. "You still carry your gun with you all the time, right?"

"Of course I do," Castiel says. Also true. "Why are you really here, Bal?"

"You've been acting weird."

Castiel takes a bite of his eggs. "In what way?" he asks, doing his best to look puzzled. It's not entirely a lie; as far as he can tell he's acting normally in and outside of work, besides disappearing every once in a while.

"Morgan called."

That fucker.

"He didn't say what was up, only that he felt like you could use someone to talk to, someone to bind you to your life. Cassie, what's going on?"

Castiel stares at him for a moment, mind processing. So Morgan thinks that Castiel needs a reminder of why he's out and free, and why he should remain so? He can't be thinking what Balthazar innocently implied, that Castiel's going to go off and do something dangerous or stupid and become a hunter full time. Castiel has no intention of doing that while he still has a choice in the matter. He won't abandon a hunt – or human lives - for the sake of his job, but he's not going to take stupid risks, either.

Or is this just about Dean? He knows Morgan disapproves.

When Castiel came to him to ask about Dean's psychological notes, Morgan gave Castiel a rundown but flatly refused to give him a copy. Saying that Dean was fine with it didn't help. _Stay out of it_ , Morgan told him. _When you came back to work, you wanted out of Dean's case. I'm keeping it that way._

"He's just worried I'm working too much," Castiel finally says. Half truth, half lie. Castiel is getting better at this. "Bal, you know I'm happy to see you."

Balthazar softens. "Of course I do, Cassie."

"Then let's not fight, okay? We can spend the day doing whatever you want."

Balthazar points his fork at Castiel. "Just remember I'm watching you. As a loving older brother should."

"Are you going to rant about not putting a lock on my door next?" Castiel asks. "Maybe say it's your duty to go through my underwear drawer?"

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

Next meet, Dean doesn't text Castiel his room number. When Castiel arrives at the fish-themed motel, he talks to the attendant behind the desk, but there's no record of any of Dean's aliases having checked in. He also doesn't answer Castiel's texts. When Castiel finally gives in and makes a call, it goes to voicemail. He sits in his car for nearly thirty minutes, debating what to do. Leave? Assume Dean is busy? Assume Dean is hurt, but he can't help him? Because he can't. He can't track the burner.

He finally texts Morgan, asking if he knows where Dean is.

 _Arkansas last I heard, having killed a nest. If he's not there with you, something happened,_ Morgan replies.

Real, deep worry begins.

Ever since Castiel had to hand over Dean's backup to Morgan, an itching concern has remained in the back of his mind. It's not that he doesn't trust Morgan, because he trusts Morgan with his life. But he knows that Morgan is less attached to Dean than Castiel is. Castiel snorts, running his hand through his hair, and watching the beat-down motel get another random visitor. Less attached is putting it lightly. Morgan will back up Dean like he would anyone else, but he's not going to worry about what Dean does out of his sight unless it concerns Castiel.

Everything Dean does concerns Castiel. Maybe the better way to put it is that everything Dean does, Castiel cares about.

Castiel pays for a room at the end of the lot – like Dean would – in cash. He turns on the TV and contemplates making himself car trouble, in case he ever has to explain what the hell he was doing across town at this time of night. He's halfway through another Twilight Zone episode when there's a pounding on the door.

Castiel's up and looking through the peephole in a second. On the other side, face somewhat bloody, is Dean. "Shit," he mutters and opens the door.

"Oh, good, it's you," Dean says when he catches sight of Castiel. He slumps a bit, leaning against the door jamb. There's a bright red line of blood peeking out of his jacket. "Can I come in?"

"What happened?" Castiel asks, resisting the urge to pull Dean in, and instead just stepping to the side. "Are you injured?"

"Oh, a bit," Dean says easily. "I'll be fine. Mostly scratches."

Castiel shuts the door. "Take off your clothes."

Dean freezes, then looks at Castiel warily.

"Most of them," Castiel amends. "I need to look at you. Whatever happened, you're still bleeding," he points out. He grabs Dean's hand, watching a droplet of blood cross across Dean's palm.

Dean slowly nods. He starts to take off his jacket, then when he winces, Castiel gets behind him and helps. The loose flannel shirt is next, and then his t-shirt, which Dean is able to pull over his head, though there probably wasn't much point. Castiel can see several rips in it, with damaged skin beneath. Once the shirt is removed, Castiel stops him from going farther by gently placing his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean obediently stills. There's a distinct claw mark on his back, half scabbed, half healing.

"Stand there, I'll get the rest," Castiel orders. "Otherwise you'll pull this open even farther," he adds, lightly tracing around the ripped skin.

"Okay." Dean shivers.

Castiel circles to Dean's front, ignoring the weirdly intent look that Dean is giving him. It doesn't feel dangerous, that focus, so Castiel kneels and starts unlacing Dean's boots. There's some kind of wound on Dean's left thigh, so he needs to get Dean's jeans off. When he lifts Dean's leg to get the boot off, Dean wobbles and then puts his hand on Castiel's shoulder for support, before snatching his hand away. Castiel looks up. "It's okay, Dean."

Dean bites his lip. "I'm sorry."

Castiel gets the boot off. "For what?"

"For reacting," Dean mutters, eyes averted.

There's a slight swell under Dean's jeans.

"Don't worry about it," and surprisingly, Castiel means it. Dean has reacted to Castiel being close before, and kneeling before him like this probably reminds him pretty strongly of the times Castiel did so as a prelude to sex. There's some degree of discomfort to see Dean aroused, but mostly because it opens a flood of emotions and memories in Castiel. The weight and taste of Dean's cock in his mouth, and the dizzying combination of arousal and nausea that accompanies it.

He takes off Dean's other boot.

Dean hastily undoes his jeans, still not looking anywhere near Castiel, and then shoves them down to mid-thigh. Castiel slides them off the rest of the way, carefully not looking too closely at the outline of Dean's cock. Dean steps out of them and away from Castiel, then rather creakily walks over to the far bed and sits. He frowns down at his thigh wound, which is bleeding sluggishly.

"Where's your first aid kit?" Castiel asks.

"Um, in my car," Dean says. He points at his jeans on the floor. "Keys in my right pocket. Blue duffel in the trunk."

"I'll be right back. Don't move."

Keys in hand, Castiel leaves the room and shuts the door behind him. He takes a moment to breathe out and feel the cold air on his skin. He's nowhere near hard, but he's not entirely soft either. He can't decide what it means – if he's still attracted to Dean, or it's just some sense-memory being awoken, like when he was completely unable to masturbate without thinking of Dean. Either way, he stamps down on the reaction, because that's the last thing either of them needs, and then goes for the Impala, sitting a few parking spots away. The blue duffel is less of a kit and more of a pack, and Castiel smiles, realizing how much sense that makes.

Dean has obeyed his command to stay put. He's still sitting on the bed, clad only in boxers and socks.

Castiel sits the duffel on the bed next to him, and asks, "Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

"I was close to here, and I didn't want to miss meeting you." Dean gives an aborted shrug. "You could be called to another case in some other part of the country any time."

Castiel smiles at him, and Dean smiles shyly back.

"So what happened?"

"Oh, a hunt. A small job, an absolutely tiny little ghost problem that I could take care of in a couple of hours, no problem. Absolutely minuscule hunt." Dean grins at him.

Relieved to see Dean bouncing back, Castiel grins back. "Those claw marks don't look tiny."

"Yeah, the hunt wasn't a tiny as I thought. Finished it, though."

The Winchester first aid kit is more like an EMT's bag. Castiel finds everything he needs in short order, then is cleaning and stitching wounds. He keeps his touch impersonal, and Dean slowly relaxes. Still, Dean's warm skin is yet another trigger for memories he'd thought buried.

He remembers falling asleep naked in Dean's arms, or vice versa. He remembers the feel of Dean's scars, the shiny, smooth skin of long-ago healed wounds. The smell of Dean after a shower.

Castiel clears his throat and steps away. "That looks good. You should sleep on your stomach tonight." He frowns at the cut on Dean's forehead, which he'd closed with butterfly bandages. "You didn't lose consciousness, did you?"

Dean shakes his head. "Thanks, Cas."

"I'll stay the night anyway," Castiel decides.

"You don't have to. I'll be fine. Even Sam'd leave me overnight with just this."

Castiel ignores him. "It would help if you could tell me how to temporarily disable my car. Then in the morning I can call for some car help. Gives me an excuse for being all the way out here all night."

"Sure," Dean says after a moment. "But only because your car is a travesty of engineering."

Castiel laughs.

Dean looks pleased with himself.

"Do you need anything to eat?" Castiel asks, getting up and pulling the top blanket and sheets down. He arranges the pillows so it will be easier for Dean to lie down on his stomach.

"No, I had something before that tiny hunt. Probably better if I only have juice or something, just in case. You know, Cas, you don't have to play nursemaid."

"If I don't, who will?" Castiel asks, contemplating the soda machine he saw when he drove in to this motel.

"That's not a reason."

Castiel meets Dean's eyes. "It is to me."

Dean tilts his head. "You think I'm that pathetic?"

"I don't think you're pathetic," Castiel replies, startled. "But you don't deserve to be alone."

Dean's gaze drops. "I – thanks." He turns to the bed, and arranges himself with the pillows so that none of his injuries are directly touching the sheets.

Hesitating for a few seconds, Castiel finally leaves to get Dean some juice. The soda machine doesn't have anything healthy, but the corner market does, and Castiel pays in cash for some drinks for Dean and snacks for both of them later. Dean is still awake when he returns, though he half expected Dean to have passed out from exhaustion. Instead, Dean just watches him as Castiel finally gets more comfortable, taking off his own shoes, and the sweatshirt he had over his simple tee. He sits on the second bed.

"Sorry I messed up plans," Dean says, half into his pillow.

Castiel resists the urge to ask if Dean wants a sheet over him. Most of those wounds need open air. It is odd – yes, that's the word he's choosing – to see Dean draped over a bed, half naked, ass temptingly raised in the air. "I didn't have plans."

"You always have plans, Cas. You're telling me you didn't think about what we should talk about? I know you let things go where they will, but you always start from a specific point."

"I'm not sure you're in the shape –"

"Come on, Cas. I'm bruised and scratched, not dying. I want to, you know, help." He clears his throat. "I want to spend time with you, you know I always do."

Castiel looks away. "I suppose," he says at last, slowly, "I've been thinking about all the things we avoided talking about. While I was your prisoner." It's odd to say those words to a man he just helped. _While I was your prisoner_. "There's a lot we didn't talk about during those eighteen months, Dean. We didn't talk about you keeping me against my will. We didn't talk about sex. There's a lot neither one of us felt like we can handle. Or that's how I read it, anyway."

Dean doesn't seem taken aback. Just contemplative. "Yeah. I mean – yeah. I always avoid shit like that, but I went kind of crazy doing it back then."

"I know we've talked a lot about what led you to do it, but we've never discussed how you felt. While I was with you." Castiel pauses awkwardly. "How did you feel about the cuff?"

A muscle in Dean's back jumps. "You sure you want to hear this?"

"Yes."

"At first, I kind of wanted to ignore it. I mean, for like the first ten months or so, it was something I didn't think about because I wanted to imagine you were there willingly. But after a while, it felt – good." Dean flushes. "I got a kick out of feeling like I owned you. It was reassuring, too, that was a big part of it, but I also _liked_ it."

"So did I," Castiel says quietly.

Dean blinks. "You – what? You did?"

"You wanted me enough to break all your morals. It, well, it turned me on. Eventually."

Dean stares at him, then huffs a dry laugh. "God, we're so fucked up." Then he amends it, "I'm fucked up."

"No, you had it right the first time," Castiel corrects. "Regardless of the reason or who is responsible, we both are fucked up." He shrugs. "I had a lot of difficulty with how I felt about you, how I liked – well, how I liked what you did, in some ways."

Dean exhales. "Yeah. Same."

Castiel never thought he'd ask about this, but he finds he wants to know. "You really – really wanted to fuck me. And you said that you wanted me to have you that way, you just wanted me on the bottom more," Castiel says, testing the waters.

Dean nods, and to Castiel's surprise he doesn't tense up, like this is something he's thought about prior to this. "Yeah, and I wasn't lying. I swear I wasn't. I wanted you – I mean, I trusted you. To do that with me, to me. I just could never relax with anyone after hell, you know? Not with a one night stand, and ones Sammy didn't know about, because I tried to keep the whole guy thing a secret, at least for a few years."

There's a whole lot of surprises in those sentences, but Castiel chooses to focus on the least traumatic one. "He wasn't surprised your soulmate was male?"

Dean shakes his head. "No. He kinda knew at that point. He was obnoxious about it when he found out – kept hiding gay pride flags in my baby, shit like that. I wanted to kill him," Dean says with a grin. He grips his pillow, but the expression on his face is fond. "But it was his way of making sure I knew he was fine with it without actually talking. You know how I hate talking about feelings, Cas."

"I make you talk about your feelings," Castiel points out.

"Yes, well, you're my – " Dean stops. "You're you, it's different."

Castiel slowly smiles.

"And Sam, I mean, I did the whole chick-flick thing with a lot, don't get me wrong. He's my brother and I love his sorry ass, and said it when I needed to. But it's not the same thing."

Castiel nods, the smiling fading as he becomes thoughtful. "But you had … issues with having sex with a man. Because of your experience in hell."

Dean sighs, long and low. "Yeah. It was hell. I think you can guess what happened." He looks away, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't want to say the words, Cas."

"You don't have to," Castiel says immediately. Which is true. Though he finds interesting that Dean can say the words _I raped you_ , but not the words _I was raped_. "I'm not trying to push you, Dean. Just know you better."

"When I think about – what I did to you, sometimes I think that's where it all got screwed up for me. What consent means, I guess. Because I wasn't hurting you like I was hurt, so it didn't seem the same, but I've clocked guys for pressuring girls." Dean rolls his eyes, not at Castiel but at himself. "It was fucked up. I am sorry, Cas."

"I know you are." Castiel reaches out, tentatively, far enough that Dean can touch his hand if he wants to. "You acted out of pain and trauma of your own, I do know that."

Dean very gingerly returns that offer of touch. "Doesn't excuse it."

"But I understand it," Castiel says. "And so do you. We won't repeat the same mistakes."

Dean smiles a bit. "You're such an optimist."

Castiel laughs. "If you say so."

"Cas, you're here. With me. If that's not optimism, then it's pure insanity."

"Depends on who you ask," Castiel says flippantly.

The expression on Dean's face suggests that he knows exactly who to ask, but he doesn't say anything. He just looks at Castiel, but not with the same focus as before, instead more of a casual interest, catching what he can on Castiel's face and absorbing its meaning. His mouth quirks into a smile.

Castiel has the very sudden and very strong urge to curl up next to Dean.

During most of his captivity, he wouldn't have hesitated. Anytime Castiel initiated physical contact, Dean loved it. But they are both far different people than they were then. At least hopefully.

And maybe that's the core of this urge, a desire to go back to the parts of that life that did make Castiel happy. He thinks it would be fair to say that Dean was his longest and most serious relationship – what he felt for Dean doesn't compare to his past relationships, even with all the messy pain involved. Dean is his soulmate. They are connected, on some level, or meant to be together. So in that sense he supposes it makes sense, how deeply he still feels for Dean. He cared for Stephen, but that didn't compare either. What he feels for Dean is overwhelming, like he's an overflowing cup of emotions when it comes to Dean.

He wasn't lying when he told Dean he loved him. He just isn't sure that overrides everything else. The pain and they way Dean hurt him.

"Can I touch you?" Castiel finally asks.

A line appears between Dean's eyebrows. But he says, "Okay. Yeah."

Probably out of habit, Castiel set up Dean's bed with Dean mostly on one side. It's easy for Castiel to take the other, lying down next to him. That almost-touch of their hands turns into a real one.

Dean says, "You know friends don't share a bed."

Castiel snorts. "I don't know what we are."

"Don't you think you should?"

"I know I care about you," Castiel says. "I don't like seeing you hurt." He traces the scratch on Dean's wrist, not enough to really need a bandaid.

Dean apparently decides to stop arguing Castiel out of what Dean no doubt wants himself, because he says nothing more.

Castiel takes to stroking Dean's wrist, avoiding the scratch, but tracing the muscle and sinew of his hand. After a few minutes, Dean's eyes close. He says, voice hoarse, "I've missed your touch. I know I have no right to, but I have." He opens his eyes, presumably to check for Castiel's reaction.

Dean had shared a great deal with Castiel. Castiel knows Dean has no expectation of reciprocation, but Castiel does anyway. "You know when you came to me that first time after I escaped?"

"Yeah?"

"I told you that you raped me."

Dean swallows. "Yeah."

"I feel like … our early encounters," and maybe that's not the right word, but it's the one he's choosing, "were rape. I gave into pressure. And I knew it at the time, it's why I threw up, why I hurt myself by throwing a punch at a mirror. I didn't want to be touched by you. I didn't want sex. I was lonely, and you were all I had. I was fumbling around trying to mentally survive, and you took advantage of that."

Dean blinks rapidly. "Yeah, I did."

"And logically, I know that everything after you kidnapped me lacked my true consent. Because that first act poisoned every other one that followed." He looks into Dean's bright, green eyes. "But as much as I still wanted to be free, as much as you were hurting me by isolating me, when I told you we were lovers, that felt real to me. It still does, mostly. It didn't feel like rape. Maybe not a completely free act, but I wasn't – directly traumatized. It was physically pleasurable and emotionally fulfilling."

"I – I'm not sure what that means, Cas."

"I meant it when I said it wasn't all bad," Castiel says with a broken smile. "I loved having sex with you. I loved how much you wanted me, how much your life revolved around mine. I knew it wasn't healthy, but in a lot of ways I was happy."

"But wasn't that the worst part?" Dean asks, clearly confused. "Enjoying it when it's not something you chose?"

Castiel shrugs as much as he can while lying on his side. "I told you about synthetic and natural happiness." He swallows past a dry throat. "And right now? I'm choosing this. This is what I want."

"Natural happiness, Cas?" Dean asks softly. "Really?"

"Yes. Is it wrong of me to want the good parts, Dean, and not the bad?"

"Of course not," Dean says instantly. "I want you to be happy. Whatever that takes."

Castiel squeezes Dean's hand, that he's still holding. "Sometimes I'm scared, Dean, but this is what I want."

Dean levers himself partway up. Castiel watches, concerned, but all Dean does is gently pull Castiel's hand to him, and kiss Castiel's fingertips, soft and warm and dry, Dean's mouth closed. It doesn't feel sexual. "Okay."

"I'm not asking you for sex," Castiel feels obliged to clarify. "I'm not sure I can do that, even if it was a good idea. I have – issues around sex."

"I'm sorry, Cas. I'm so sorry," Dean says, and he says it like he always does, so quietly sincere. Like each separate apology is absolutely necessary. "Um, I don't know if I have the right to ask this, but you said you were dating. Is he – helping you?"

Castiel starts, realizing that he never told Dean how that turned out. "He did. He helped me a lot, actually. But he wanted me to quit doing so such dangerous work, and neither of us could compromise on that point. So we broke up."

Dean looks relieved, then ashamed of being relieved. He admits, voice pained, "It drove me a little crazy to think of someone else touching you. But I'm glad he helped. I didn't want to, you know, push in where I have no right to and don't deserve to, and all that shit. And I mean who you date is like the top of that list."

For some reason, that amuses Castiel. Maybe because he's always known how obsessed Dean is with him. Dangerously so, in the beginning, but maybe just normally obsessed, at this point. Progress? But probably something Dean can't overcome; it's too basic to his nature, or the way he was nurtured. Take care of Sam first was the top rule of Dean's existence. And when Sam left for college, Dean let him go, knowing that was best for Sam, but that desire to be part of Sam's life never faded. And Dean was really only truly happy once Sam came back and hunted with him. Not that even in Dean's own mind Dean's happiness really means all that much. Castiel was an aberration that way, or at least part of one, since Castiel was just as much about sheer emotional survival as he was happiness.

"He didn't judge me. When I talked about you. I needed that," Castiel says.

"Not an agent, then, I take it?"

Castiel laughs. "God, no. Being around people all too capable of psychoanalyzing me was stressful, to say the least."

"I'm too dumb to psychoanalyze you," Dean says lightly. "That's a good thing, right?"

"You're not dumb," Castiel corrects. "But you definitely look at the world and people differently than I do."

Dean doesn't look like he entirely agrees, but he drops it. "I can fix, er, break your car early in the morning, before the sun comes up."

"All right."

"Tow-truck guy might be able to fix it, but either way, you have your excuse," Dean adds.

"Thank you, Dean."

They both fall asleep sometime after that, one lamp burning softly through the night, just holding hands.

Castiel wakes up around dawn. His eyes are crusty and the back of his neck is sweaty. He groans and opens his eyes, but Dean is no longer on the bed. A look around the room reveals Dean in sweatpants, but not much else. The other duffel in the trunk, that Castiel forgot to bring in, is on the second bed. Dean's drinking coffee.

"Morning," Castiel says.

Dean looks up and smiles, nice and bright. "G'morning." He picks up a cup of coffee and hands it to Castiel. "I see you still wake up feeling like shit."

And of course, Dean would know. "I can't escape it, apparently."

Dean half smiles, half winces.

"I didn't – that's not what I meant, Dean."

"It's okay," Dean says, turning away. "I feel much better today. Thanks for taking care of my injuries. A lot easier to have someone else do it."

"Of course."

"It's Monday, so I'm assuming you're going in?" Dean asks.

"Late, yes," Castiel says. "I'll explain about my car and my lack of roadside assistance."

"What would you do if you were called in for a case?" Dean asks curiously.

"Get a cab, deal with the car after I get back, assuming I don't have the time to handle it," Castiel explains. "We all keep a spare set of clothes and toiletries at the office, or on the plane."

"So you've got your plane, I've got my baby?"

Castiel levers himself to a sitting position to drink his coffee, and smiles at Dean. "Basically."

Dean looks down for a moment. "Well, I should get going. So I'm not here when you call for car help."

His body doesn't really want to move, but Castiel is used to ignoring that. He gets up and approaches Dean, carefully choreographing his intent to give Dean a hug. Dean smiles at him, soft and genuine, and the embrace is careful and light. Mostly because of Dean's injuries; Castiel doesn't want to open any wounds that he'd spent an hour closing last night.

Castiel helps Dean get on some sneakers and a shirt, and then Dean grabs his duffels and is gone.

Castiel sits on the still-warm bed, tracing the shape Dean's body left.

* * *

"You look like shit," is the first thing Dean says.

"I feel like shit," Castiel says, resisting his body's urge to sway in place. "Three weeks chasing ghosts – not the literal kind – and we still didn't solve the case."

"Well, let me take your mind off of it," Dean says, smiling brightly. He steps aside and waves at the motel room beyond, which is lime green with yellow accents. It kind of hurts to look at it. "I have pizza, three board games from the local Goodwill, and HBO. Or so that flickering sign tells me. I sure hope they don't have a channel HO, I'm not sure that'd be a good thing for us to watch."

Castiel laughs.

"You know, not that porn isn't – I'm going to shut up now. Wanna come in?"

Castiel enters and Dean locks the door behind him.

"How was your month?" Castiel asks, taking the closer bed and heaving himself onto it. He flops backwards, but Dean is still in sight.

"Better than yours, I think," Dean says. "Some new leads on the vamp case. Nothing concrete yet, though. Hungry yet?"

Castiel just sighs. "No."

Dean squints at him. "Sleepy yet?"

"No."

"Okay then, distraction it is."

The game Sorry! turns out not to have all the pieces. Castiel vaguely remembers the instructions – it wasn't a game in the bunker, though the game was definitely in existence when the bunker was made and abandoned. And he didn't play board games with his siblings.

"Sam and I always made our own versions," Dean explains. "Some motels and short-term apartments had this kind of stuff for rent, but usually pieces were missing, and sometimes important ones."

Sorry! is pretty easy to modify. Castiel ends up being yellow and blue, and Dean red and green. Dean, out of respect for Castiel's bad few weeks, generously allows Castiel to have one more piece than him, but groans every time Castiel knocks him back. Half the cards are missing, which ends up unbalancing the game even further, and Castiel ends up winning with half of Dean's pieces in starting position. Dean groans and moans and generally acts like losing means he's dying, but Castiel recognizes it for the theater it is, and the entertainment it is meant to be.

"You're bad at Sorry," Castiel says.

"I'm sorry," Dean says gravely, then smirks. And for once, his apology isn't about something painful.

Castiel grins. "Chinese food?"

Dean grimaces. "Thai? Picked out a random Chinese place recently and my gut regretted it."

"I eat at chains, solves that problem. Mostly."

"But you miss the authentic places doing that," Dean points out. "The little gems of the world."

"And yet, I don't find myself puking," Castiel replies. "Always a bad thing when chasing someone with a gun."

"No pain, no gain," Dean says loftily. But he gets up and grabs his phone, presumably searching for places with takeout.

Dean is in fine form the rest of the night. He's at his most charming, the way he only really is when he's relaxed and happy. Dean could charm the pants off of nearly anyone regardless of his genuine mood, but Castiel knows him too well for anything less than completely sincere to work. Not that Dean is trying to charm the pants off of Castiel; this behavior was usually reserved for when Dean was really happy, or when Castiel was somewhat struggling, and Dean wanted to help him overcome it. When Castiel was not damaged, per se, just having a bad day. Anything more than a bad day resulted in caring Dean, the one who cuddled him and spoiled him with food.

This Dean just wants to make him laugh.

It's a far more equal relationship than the one they often had. Dean inflicting pain and soothing it at the same time frequently made Castiel feel helpless.

But this is different. Castiel forgot how much he just enjoyed Dean's company. Now it feels … safe to do, in a way it wasn't before. Perhaps more permissible.

That's it. Without the threat of imprisonment or force, it feels allowable to enjoy being in Dean's presence.

"What?"

Castiel focuses on him.

"You're giving me a funny look," Dean says warily.

"Just thinking."

"Can I ask about what?"

Castiel considers how to put it into words. "I don't feel guilty for enjoying your company."

Dean looks puzzled, but a glint of understanding lights in his eyes a moment later. "Ah."

"It's a good thing," Castiel reassures.

Dean ducks his head. "Um, well, I'm glad you're, uh, liking me?"

Castiel smiles. "Yes, Dean, I like you."

A faint flush appears along Dean's cheekbones. "'Kay."

It's cute.

* * *

The door is locked, Aditi is asleep, and presumably Castiel's cell phone will not ring. Of course it's possible he'll get called in; that's pretty much always possible. The United States is a large country, with a lot of people, and the BAU is only one team. Fortunately serial killers are relatively rare, but they also sometimes get called in on serial child kidnappings and human trafficking cases. It keeps things lively at work, to say the least. Getting a few full days of rest is rare and thus greatly treasured.

He flops on his bed, sighing. He toes off his socks and unbuttons his slacks.

Castiel's been lucky recently. He's mostly used the time to meet with Dean.

Dean.

For a long time, thinking about Dean was a process mixed with fear and agony. Castiel was traumatized after escaping, not just by what Dean did to him, but also by the process of readjusting to a world and way of thinking that no longer felt familiar. Reorganizing his own patterns of thinking to something more normal and healthy was hard, even though he always knew it was necessary. Viewing Dean clearly, instead of emotionally, was vital, if incredibly difficult.

He feels, for the most part, that he's overcome that hurdle. Dean verbally acknowledging all his wrongdoing helped immensely, and Dean's final act – to turn himself in to the police – was a confirmation of his words.

Castiel didn't want Dean in prison, but he finally felt safe when he realized Dean felt so badly about what he'd done that he essentially intended to end his life as he knew it. He put Dean largely out of his mind after that. Lived his life as he had before Dean. He explored his sexuality with Stephen, and continued on like everyone expected. Changed, yes, scarred, yes, but functioning and happy.

But Castiel's always loved Dean, even when he put aside those emotions out of practicality. Having Dean out of prison has lifted those emotions back to the surface. It's stronger than friendship. Maybe more layered.

Dean still confuses him, but less because of anything Dean is doing, and more because Castiel is doing it to himself.

Thoughts buzz around in his head but refuse to clarify.

He's hungry. He gets up, goes to the fridge – it doesn't face the living room, instead a counter, which has always helped – and grabs his latest Chinese takeout leftovers. He unbinds the box on the kitchen table and eats it cold. It still tastes good, though in a different way than fresh. Once he's done, he notices something. Something odd.

He's horny.

Standing up is automatic, then he hesitates. He'd intended to head for the shower, but …

He opens his closet and pauses in the doorway.

Then he goes for a bag in the back, behind where his casual clothing hangs. It's black, no text, exactly like he remembers it, though it's been more than six months since he's touched it. The last time was well after he broke up with Stephen, and one of the few times he'd felt sexually frustrated since then. Work tends to consume his life and subsume his sex drive. Really, only Dean being around is making Castiel horny.

He hesitates on opening the bag. He takes it to his bed, and then slowly opens it. Lube. A black dildo. A cockring, though he's never used that.

Masturbating quickly in the shower – either before or after work – is all Castiel's really done. Indulging himself sexually feels like, well, an indulgence.

He strips off all his clothing. He puts the dildo and lube on the bed, but leaves the cockring in the bag. Then he lays down on his back, and runs his hand along his soft cock. He plays with the head and the sensitive underside, stroking along the slit last. His mind is fairly blank. He's just enjoying the physical sensation of being touched, even if it's only by himself. He cups his balls and squeezes the base of his cock, and then begins to harden.

Dean would know how to touch him.

Castiel blinks at the ceiling.

He's fantasized about random people since breaking up with Stephen. Beautiful men and women. He hasn't really thought about Dean – he thought he'd broken himself of that habit.

He strokes himself, feeling his cock fill. He pauses only once, to grab lube, get himself slick. That makes it better – he masturbates faster, the slick sounds loud against his pants. He spreads his legs, and with lubed fingers, he presses one inside himself. He freezes in shock, because this is the first time since fucking himself with the dildo and calling Dean that he's done this.

His body isn't used to it – he's tight, and even just one finger edges on painful. Castiel bites his lip, then slowly slides it in and out. His cock remains hard.

One finger becomes two, then three. He still feels tight, but he grabs the dildo and lubes it up, and then presses it against his hole. Pushes in just the tip.

He groans. His cock jerks.

He takes about two inches before he has to stop, and slide it in and out, the sensitive skin of his entrance catching a little on it. He nearly drops the package of lube trying to get more out with greasy hands, but he gets another glob of it and puts it on the tip of the dildo. Tries again, and this time the dildo sinks in farther before he has to stop.

Then he starts fucking himself with it. The dildo goes in farther each time, until the base is pressed against his ass. He shifts over onto his side, his hand behind him holding the dildo, and goes faster. Harder. Just like Dean did. He imagines Dean behind him, fucking him with his hard cock, moaning with his face red – Dean always looked so intense during sex.

An intense longing for Dean almost overrides the sensations of sex. Of masturbation. His mouth waters when he imagines Dean's cock in his mouth, that Castiel is sucking on him while getting fucked with this dildo. Dean would like that, he's sure. Filling up Castiel from both ends. He wants that, wants how much Dean wants him.

Pre-come drips from his cock when he hits his prostate. Fuck, but it feels good. He didn't let Stephen do this and refused to even do it to Stephen, but the sensations are amazing. He's so aroused, so hard, and ready to come.

He slams the dildo against his prostate, again and again, and then comes – "Dean!"

He comes down from the high gasping, a bit in shock, a bit in lingering pleasure.

Did he seriously just do that?

Masturbate to Dean? After all this time?

He slowly takes out the dildo. It felt good, but not like a real penis. Not like Dean.

He and Stephen never got to that point. Stephen would ask to talk about it, but never pushed the issue, and some part of Castiel felt like giving that to Stephen was somehow ruining him having given it to Dean – because he knew how important it was to Dean to have Castiel in every way. It wasn't logical and wasn't very healthy – Dr. Katz certainly encouraged him not to think that way – but he could never quite get over that feeling, even when the sense of cheating on Dean fully faded.

It hits him very suddenly: he views Dean sexually. He's sexually attracted to Dean. He always will be. Their relationship was always sexual. Yes, they were friends as well as lovers – if he can even use that word, and he knows Morgan wouldn't, and his psychiatrist wouldn't, and the BAU wouldn't – but friendship alone is never something Castiel felt for Dean. Even in the confusion of being straight and then developing an ability to be attracted to a man, their relationship was never platonic. It couldn't be, because it wasn't on Dean's side and Castiel was always fully aware of that.

No wonder Dean keeps warning Castiel off. Castiel's been in denial, but Dean knew there's always going to be a sexual tinge to their relationship. Hell, Castiel _kissed_ Dean!

It's hard for any two normal people once in a romantic relationship to end that and be only friends. Much less soulmates.

Castiel lies in his bed, stomach still covered in semen and thinks, _Fuck_.

* * *

"Well, at least this time you don't look like shit," Dean says, just a moment after opening the motel door.

"Thank you," Castiel says dryly. "May I come in?"

"'Course, always," Dean says easily, and steps away from the door.

Castiel walks in and locks the door behind him. Dean chose a bit better quality of a motel this time, though he knows a lot of the reason Dean (and Sam, in the past) always goes for the crappy ones is because the credit card fraud is harder for them to catch. Not that Dean uses credit cards, for these – Castiel made sure to ask. He uses cash that he gets by hustling pool. Castiel asked about giving Dean cash, but Dean just waved it away.

The walls are actually cream, and don't have water or age spots. The beds look clean. The desk is a bit battered, but looks like solid wood.

"So how are you?" Castiel asks.

"Good," Dean says. "You got the files I sent, right?"

"Yes," Castiel says. He's even looked them over. Morgan and Castiel have been working almost constantly, but Dean had the time to go through the files found both through Castiel's program at the disastrous ranch house, and ones that Morgan's friend came through with and decrypted from the laptop. It ended up being financial information that led Dean to a pattern about how they buy old buildings, and he's been using that and the combo of information about the young vamp nests to try to narrow a location for the vamp leader. How close he is, that's debatable, but it's definitely progress. "Did you find anything new?"

"Not since we last spoke," Dean says, grimacing.

Castiel eyes him. "You look better. Healthier." Closer to his original weight.

Dean blinks. "Um, thanks." He shrugs. "I feel better. More energy. Cas, what are you getting at?"

Direct. That's good. Castiel's only asked about this obliquely before. "I guess I'm wondering what your mental state is. You seemed depressed when Anna first got you out."

"Well … yeah, I guess so. I mean, but I kind of should feel like shit, shouldn't I?"

"You know, Dean, part of you being safe for me to be around means you being healthy, happy and secure in yourself. You lacked those things when you kidnapped me."

Dean sits down. "You think I'm going to –"

"No, no," Castiel says, raising his hands. "Not at all. I'm just making a point. I want you happy, but you also need to be happy, or at least not depressed. It's part of your mental health. I know you focused on me and what led to kidnapping me with your psychologist, but –"

"Did you see her notes?" Dean interrupts. "I want you to know you're safe. From me."

"No. I had Morgan give me an overview, but I have no official reason to see them, and Morgan didn't think it was wise, for whatever reason." It's not like Castiel isn't already embarking on a potentially emotionally dangerous relationship with Dean. What harm could it do?

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"I don't need to see them, Dean. I know what your mental state was before you turned yourself in. I didn't know if you would get out of that intact, but I didn't fear for myself."

Dean bites his lip, then slow nods. "Okay. I gotcha." He fidgets, picking a stray thread from his jeans, which are wearing thin at the knees – not artistically, but from work. "I am – better. Happier, I guess, to say it the way you would. Life has a rhythm again, you know what I mean?"

Castiel smiles. "Yes, I do."

"It's good. I'm glad – well, I'm glad you have that. I know how important it is, you know? Not to harp on it, but I had that when I was holding you prisoner, and you didn't. I kind of get it a lot more." Dean scratches his head, looking oddly shy. "I think it's really cool you're working with the FBI again, and your team. I was really happy to hear that."

Castiel takes that in and accepts it. "So what did you want to do tonight?"

"I'm fuckin' starving, Cas."

"Dean, you are a walking stomach." Or at least he was. Looks like he's slowly getting into the swing of that again.

Dean slaps his belly and grins. "Yep."

After some debate, they go for burgers and fries. Dean leaves to pick it up. Castiel grabs the remote, but doesn't turn the TV on.

Dean's duffel is sitting open on the far bed. On the top is what looks like Dean's hunting journal, except it isn't. Castiel's familiar with Dean's journal, and it's worn black leather, not that dark blue. And John Winchester's hunting journal was brown leather. Dean's going to be gone for at least half an hour, if not more, so Castiel knows he has time to take a look, but should he? It would be an invasion of privacy, but Dean probably wouldn't care.

Castiel should still ask, even if he knows Dean will say yes. It's a kind of dangerous power, to know that almost anything he does, Dean will simply accept as Castiel's right.

The journal stays where it is until Dean comes back, hands full of delicious smelling paper bags.

"Yours. Unless you really want one of my three burgers," Dean says, dropping one in front of Castiel, who is sitting on one of the beds.

Castiel shakes his head. "As long as I have fries."

"Extra large, dude."

Castiel takes out his burger and napkins. He spreads them out so he doesn't get the comforter covered in crumbs and sauce. He clears his throat and asks, "What's the journal for?"

"Oh. It's, um, a personal journal, not my hunting one." Dean glances at it, then back at Castiel. "Yeah, you can read it. Just don't get burger on it."

Castiel blinks at him. "Of course I –"

"I'm kidding, Cas. It probably has all kinds of food all over it." Dean grabs it and throws it onto Castiel's bed.

"You don't have to let me read it, Dean," Castiel says carefully. "You are entitled to your privacy."

But Dean just smiles at him. He doesn't look stressed or trapped in a corner. "Nah, it's yours. You mind if I stuff my face before talking about it?"

"Of course not. Go ahead and eat."

Dean shoves a burger at least four inches tall into his mouth.

One hand holding a burger, Castiel carefully flips the journal open to the first page. To his surprise, there's nothing but times and dates with slashes next to them, like Dean was counting something. He takes a closer look and realizes that the first date is about a week after Dean got out of prison. The number of slashes begins to dwindle as time goes on. The last date is about a month ago.

The next page actually has words on it, mostly scribbled notes that seem to addressed to Dean himself. _Don't make decisions out of pain_ is one. _Moral choice outside of personal repercussions._ Very clearly printed is, _I control myself._

This is Dean reminding himself of what he's supposed to do. Most likely what his therapy taught him to do, in fact.

The next few pages have smatterings of sentences like that. The first full journal entry starts with, _Saw Cas today. He looks so healthy. And he smiled at me. I've been waiting so long for that. I'm glad he's okay._

Tears prick Castiel's eyes. He remembers Dean thanking him for smiling. This must be why. He gently closes the book. When he raises his gaze to Dean, Dean is looking at him with concern.

"Something wrong, Cas?"

Castiel smiles at him. "No."

Dean finishes his burger, still looking at Castiel warily. "I mean, I talk about you and I'm sorry if that's creepy –"

"No, Dean. This is – this is good. I'm really glad you decided to write these things down," Castiel says hastily. "It's good for you."

"I just want you to know I'm not – I'm not dangerous to you."

Castiel puts down his half eaten burger and gets up from the bed, crossing over to Dean's and sitting next to him. "You're not. I know you're not. Please trust me when I say that."

Dean doesn't back off, just studies Castiel's face from two feet away. "Well, I don't think you'd be here if you didn't think that on some level," Dean admits, "but that's hardly what I'd call complete trust."

Castiel huffs out a breath. "Yes, I suppose so."

Dean wipes his mouth, getting most of the sauce that was dripping down his chin. He blinks rapidly, his long eyelashes sweeping over his cheeks.

"You missed a spot."

Dean wipes again, but misses it.

Almost feeling like his hand is someone else's, Castiel rubs the spot of sauce away, his thumb just under Dean's lower lip. Dean's lips are still beautiful, still lush. Castiel remembers them wet, slick with Castiel's spit or Castiel's come. Arousal sinks low in his stomach at the thought, at the memory. Dean's pupils are large, and his breathing is coming faster. Castiel feels a tightness in his chest and a swell in his pants. He wants this. He wants it so badly, and it's been simmering under his skin for months now, consciously denied.

But he's not denying it now.

He lurches forward and presses his lips against Dean's. Dean's mouth is half-open, and it's easy to push his tongue into Dean's mouth, to taste Dean again.

Dean's frozen for maybe a full second, then he leans into Castiel, reacting, kissing wetly, his hands going to Castiel's shoulders. It's literally been a couple of years since they kissed like this, long and hard and a prelude to more.

Dean's hands on Castiel's shoulders get painfully tight, and then Castiel is forcefully shoved backwards. Castiel's eyes fly open, a feeling of sudden anger surges, and he's reacting to the sensation of pain before he's even thinking.

He punches Dean.

Dean slides off the bed, his hand flying to his bloody mouth. He falls to the floor with a thump, bright green eyes shocked and looking up at Castiel.

"Oh – Oh God, Dean, I'm so sorry!" Castiel moves off the bed, towards Dean and then away, unable to decide what to do with himself.

Dean slowly takes his hand from his mouth, gazing silently at the blood for a second. Then, "Cas, that was awesome."

"Uh – I – what?"

"It's okay, I mean, I deserved that," Dean says easily. He's pleased, Castiel can see it in the way he moves. Definitely not upset. He doesn't get up from the floor, just looks up at Castiel.

"No, you didn't," Castiel says, wanting to slap Dean and them himself, "you most definitely didn't deserve to be hit for that."

"I think I did," Dean says, oddly amused.

"Why are you happy about this?" Castiel demands. "I hit you – just for, just for refusing an advance."

Dean shakes his head, and finally, carefully stands up. He maintains the distance between the two of them. "No, man, you hit me because I pushed you too far. And that's a good thing." His teeth are bloody when he gives Castiel a half-smile. "Really, dude."

"How can you – this isn't what I want," Castiel snaps.

"What do you want?" Dean asks, face open.

Castiel steps forward, into Dean's space. His heart is pounding when he slides a finger up the zipper of Dean's jeans.

Dean's face closes. "Cas. No."

Castiel's eyes sting. "Because I hit you?"

"Because you don't love me," Dean immediately corrects.

What? "I do love you," Castiel says, shocked that Dean would deny it. Especially after they said it to each other, those months ago.

"But are you in love with me?" Dean asks, abruptly intense. "I know you love me, Cas. But I honestly think that's as far as it goes." He backs up a bit, looking wary in a way he didn't even after Castiel punched him. Like that kiss and then getting hit aren't any kind of a big deal, but this is. It's weird. Mystifying. Why does Dean think Castiel kissed him? That it was sense memory, some weird reaction like before?

That would make sense, from Dean's point of view. He hasn't been in Castiel's head. He wasn't there when Castiel realized he will always have sexual feelings for Dean. Embracing Dean as his friend made him realize that he still wants more, that he's capable of wanting more from Dean. It's been unfolding in Castiel's mind, mostly on the subconscious level. Folding out into the conscious now, in this moment.

"You're a – Cas, you're the kindest person I've ever met. I mean, you seriously give Sammy a run for his money, and my little brother, for his all mistakes, was a giant puppy. You care about me. I know you do." Dean swallows, eyes pained but also soft. "You love me in that selfless kind of way. I can't feel that, not the way you do, even as a hunter I do the job to help people and end suffering, but not because I love them, Cas, not the way that you can."

Why is Dean rejecting him? Does Dean really think Castiel doesn't love him? After everything, after everything that Castiel has forgiven him for, how can Dean think that?

Castiel is mentally floundering. This is the last thing he expected. He didn't exactly plan this through, but since he admitted to himself that his feelings for Dean aren't platonic, he's been heading this way. He just didn't want to admit it out loud. But now? With Dean here, with Dean so close, he wants to say it. He wanted to show it, to fall into bed, to tell Dean how he feels through touch.

"If this about me escaping –"

"No, no. This has nothing to do with that. You escaped because I was hurting you, because what I was doing was wrong."

"Then?" Castiel asks, mouth dry.

Dean looks down. He presses his shirt sleeve to his bleeding lower lip, soaking up blood, then looks up with intent eyes. "Love can't come out of what I did to you. I raped you, I held you prisoner, I made myself your whole life. You care about me because you have the kindness of a saint, but that's not love. Not the romantic kind of love, anyway."

"Agape."

"I guess. My point is, I think you're confused."

Castiel certainly feels confused. He's trying to manage it all in his head, his burgeoning decision to enter into a romantic, sexual relationship with Dean, and Dean's refusal. "But you want me."

"Trust me, Cas, I want this. I want this so fucking badly," Dean says, voice rough. He keeps dabbing his lip, but his other hand clenches and unclenches. "But I'm not willing to hurt you to get it. I did that once, and I'm never doing it again."

Castiel stares at him, mind a blank buzz. He needs to process. "I should get you ice."

"That would be nice," Dean replies warily.

Castiel can't look him in the eye. He leaves the motel room and heads for the ice with an empty bucket. When he lifts the bucket out of the ice chest, he notices the small cut on his middle knuckle from hitting Dean. The world seems to slow as he keeps looking at it, unable to drag his eyes away from the sight. When he finally jerks his gaze away, his eyes are burning like it's been too long since he's blinked.

He's not upset about the cut. He's about upset what he just did. Both portions. Coming onto Dean with no explanation, very little real thought on his part, just desire. Then hitting Dean, of course. He needs to slow down. To think.

When he opens the door to the motel room, Dean jerks his head around. He looks surprised to see Castiel.

"Ice," Castiel says lamely. "And I think we should talk."

Dean hesitates a second, then nods. "Yeah. Good idea."

A washcloth filled with ice serves as an icepack. There's little specks of blood on Dean's shirt, but Castiel knows Dean doesn't care. He does wait until Dean is settled on the other bed before speaking, though. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"Cas, there's no need –"

"If I want a relationship with you, it has to be a healthy one. Hitting you doesn't qualify."

"You think we can have a healthy relationship?" Dean asks, half amused, half not.

Castiel is sitting on the other bed. About eight feet away. He doesn't answer immediately. Dean deserves a well considered answer.

Agape love is powerful, that of God. Often considered the charitable kind of love. Does he feel that for Dean? He thinks so. That love has always remained, through everything, through doing his best to beat Dean into submission during escape attempts, through screaming that he hates Dean. Castiel loved, always did, all the good parts of Dean Winchester. Philia love is that of friends, of equals. They have that, too, though much harder won. That's what they've been working towards, all these months since Dean's escape.

Eros, romantic love, has been so much more complicated.

"I do love you, Dean." He raises his hand when Dean opens his mouth to speak, and Dean subsides. "I masturbated to you a few days ago. It made me realize that I've never really had platonic feelings for you. I care for you, you're right about that, but it's more than that, too. I don't know if I can be just friends with you, Dean."

"But you can't be my lover," Dean says bluntly. "You don't love me."

That's the crux of it, for Dean. He doesn't – probably can't – believe that Castiel loves him in that way, and he won't take less. Or maybe, more accurately, he won't take that from Castiel, because that would hurt Castiel. And it makes sense, really. If Castiel is just confused, just reacting like he was trained to do during his captivity by wanting Dean, then for Dean to say yes, to enter into a relationship with Castiel is to put both of them exactly where they were two years ago, Castiel mentally wounded and bleeding, Dean inflicting that on Castiel and himself.

Castiel lets himself calm. He doesn't force it. He waits for his heart to calm, for his mind to follow. He watches Dean, who simply lets himself be watched.

It's going to hurt, but Castiel wants this.

These secret meetings between him and Dean have been both new and a reminder. Experiencing Dean as an equal, as a free person, has not made him love Dean any less. He can live without Dean … but he doesn't want to.

Every edge of their relationship is sharp enough to cut. There's no doubt about that. Castiel just proved it. But it seems worth it, even with the pain.

"I want you as my lover, Dean."

Dean's eyes are achingly sad. "I wish I could believe that's true."

Castiel nods slightly. "I understand. I'll have to prove it to you. And myself."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Castiel shakes his head. "No, you were right to push me away. I have to go into this with both eyes open, thinking about what I'm doing. And I wasn't. I was going on my emotions, what I feel, without allowing myself to think about it too deeply." He pauses. "Because I feel like I shouldn't. Like I should be ashamed of feeling like this for you, even though I'm not."

Dean is silent.

"Will you let me try?" Castiel asks gently.

"Oh, Cas," Dean says immediately. He smiles, though it must hurt. "Always."

"Will you let me touch you? Not sexually," Castiel hastens to add.

Dean nods. It strikes Castiel how open Dean is, how willing he is to risk pain simply to make Castiel happy, to please him in any small way. He won't let Castiel do something to hurt himself, but Dean lifts his chin and waits for any blows that could come his way, eyes loving. That's love, to deliberately make yourself vulnerable. Dean loves Castiel, really loves Castiel, even if he failed so horribly in the beginning to truly show it.

Castiel gets up from his bed, approaching Dean slowly. For his sake as well as Dean's; he doesn't want another reaction. He sits next to Dean, sinking into the mattress. With his left hand, he softly lays his palm across Dean's cheek, the uninjured side of his face. Dean's skin is warm, and he has stubble, rough against Castiel's fingertips. Castiel's close enough to feel Dean's warm exhale. He trails his fingers along Dean's eyebrows, along his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. Dean's eyes flutter closed.

Yes. This feels so good, so right.

Using his right hand, Castiel strokes along Dean's neck and his shoulder, which are bare. Smooth, warm skin. The slight jump of Dean's muscles at each touch makes him smile. He runs his left hand through Dean's hair, and Dean automatically turns towards that, eyes drifting shut, Castiel's fingers sinking deep into Dean's thick hair. Like a cat.

Once, years ago, Castiel told Dean that they could be together with Castiel still working at the FBI. He never thought it would happen. But maybe it will. Maybe he can have this, maybe he can convince Dean that he wants this, that it's safe for him to have it.

Not painless. Castiel's not delusional about that. But worth it, nonetheless.

Castiel's touches aren't quite kisses. But they're similar. An intimacy. Eros, at least on some level.

When Dean opens his eyes, he drops the washcloth of ice and reaches out for Castiel. Slowly. His hands first on Castiel's cheeks, rising up over his eyes to run through his hair, before slipping down to his shoulders. He touches Castiel's nape, pressing down hard for a second with his thumbs, hitting that pleasurable pressure point that a good massage gets.

Castiel moans.

Dean twitches and stills, eyes electric with want.

"Do you think about me, when you touch yourself?" Castiel whispers.

Dean swallows. "You know I do."

"I think about you."

Dean's breath skips a beat. "What do you think about?"

"You in my mouth," Castiel says, "your taste. While I fuck myself with a dildo, but it's nothing like having you –"

Dean presses a hand to his crotch and his hips jerk. He says, "Oh shit," and there's the sharp smell of semen in the air. He blinks several times before raising his eyes. "Cas, I –"

For a second, Castiel flashes back to Dean coming on his bare thigh. To the scent of semen, the shock of feeling another man come on him for the first time. The panic and fear and helplessness. His heart thuds painfully, his mouth goes dry, and he remembers the weight of the ankle cuff. It's not exactly pain, though it's not pleasant – it's like being there again, on some level, only part of him existing on this plane, in the physical present.

He breathes deep. Lets it go. Jittery. Feeling like he does after a gun fight, all adrenaline and nowhere for it to go.

He forces himself to step back and examine how he feels. In a way, it's reassuring that Dean is still that attuned to him. And he's aroused. He didn't lose his erection through that flashback. This was to be expected, really. He has mixed impulses, part of him wanting to reach out for Dean, and part of him wanting to run away. For all the retraining he's done, having this while free isn't something he can simply do – it's something he has to learn. His voice is steady and controlled when he tells Dean, "I'm going to take a shower."

"What – oh." Dean's voice trails off. He licks his lips.

"I'm hard," Castiel says simply. "But you're right; we need to get our heads squared away first."

"I just came in my pants, Cas," Dean says dryly.

"And I want to take your clothes off and make you come again," Castiel admits. A heady mix of arousal and remembered fear rise at those words. "But we can wait. We should wait."

"I'm sorry –"

"Don't be." Castiel smiles. He lightly kisses the uninjured corner of Dean's mouth. Then he picks up the abandoned washcloth full of ice and hands it to Dean. Dean takes it, slowly.

Castiel gets up, knowing the bulge in his slacks must be very obvious, and not hiding it. He ducks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and stripping before he even gets the water on. One hand on his cock, he turns the water to hot, and strokes himself. He's close to coming, surprisingly so. Dean's always been very sensitive to Castiel, and more specifically Castiel wanting him, but it took time for Castiel to return that kind of intensity. But he's not far from coming.

The hot water pounds on his back, then on his chest and abdomen, sliding past his genitals. It takes maybe a dozen strokes to come, the image of Dean kneeling in front of him in his mind.

Water takes away the physical evidence.

Castiel has been retraining his reactions to Dean for months now. He knows he has a long way to go. But this feels like progress, not regression.

Morgan would tear hair out of his bald head if he knew Castiel was here, doing this. Dr. Katz has been warning him, in the few sessions they've had, that she feels like Castiel is keeping unhealthy secrets. That he's been withdrawn.

That thought isn't enough to make him stop. Hesitate, yes. Think, yes. Dean is his soulmate. And now that Dean has proven himself worthy of being trusted, of being wanted, Castiel has to do the same. He has to prove that he's ready. Because anything less than true, deep eros love will destroy them both in the end, once Castiel chooses this path. And he has chosen it.

He slips on his boxers and t-shirt, after drying. Opening the door reveals Dean in a pair of sweatpants, instead of the dirty jeans.

Dean looks up, and he looks determined.

"What is it, Dean?" Castiel asks, stepping closer.

"I love you," Dean says. "I never want to hurt you again. This isn't – I don't think –"

"We are going to hurt each other," Castiel says matter-of-factly.

Dean opens his mouth.

"We will," Castiel says, overriding whatever Dean was going to say. "But it's worth it to me, Dean. And as long as it's worth it to you, I'm not going to end this."

"You're worth anything." But the doubt remains in Dean's eyes.

Castiel walks over to the closest bed. He shoves back the sheets and blankets, and lays down with enough room for Dean to roll up next to him. "Please?"

Dean hesitates for a long minute. Then he settles on the bed, laying down and turning his back to Castiel. Castiel curls up behind him, the big spoon for once. He settles his chin between Dean's shoulder blades, and shifts a leg between Dean's. Dean lets him. Castiel strokes along Dean's clothed hip and thigh until the slight shivers stop.

Dean's still vulnerable. If Castiel had any real doubt that this is what he wants, he wouldn't do this. Not to Dean. Because Castiel still remembers promising not to break him. It's necessary, right, to prove to both of them that Castiel can love Dean sexually and romantically before they go any further.

With the light on all night, they sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N** : I'm not entirely happy with portions of this chapter, particularly the action-y parts. I couldn't find good research online, so ... I'm pretty sure how I wrote is not how it's done. But I was getting really hung up on it and Dean/Cas are the important thing, right? :p

When the next chapter will be out is uncertain. I gave birth and have a baby boy who demands a lot of my time!

 **Warnings (spoilers!)** : Violence on par with show. Possible dub-con, depending on your point of view.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Morgan's pissed. And far more awake than Castiel, who is standing at his apartment door in sleep pants and a robe, his eyes still hurting from turning the lights on to answer the pounding at his door. Morgan, on the other hand, looks like it's the middle of the afternoon and someone just killed his cat.

"It's three in the morning," Castiel groans. He's only been asleep two hours. "Is there a case?"

"No. Let me in," Morgan demands.

Castiel leaves the doorway and slumps onto the couch. He takes several deep breaths, forcing his mind to fully awaken. A thought hits him. "Is it Dean?" he asks, perking up. "Did something happen?"

"Did something?" Morgan snaps, walking forward.

"What?"

Morgan sits down in the armchair and leans forward, elbows on knees. "Are you sleeping with Dean?"

Castiel rubs his sleep-gritty eyes, a feeling of dread rising. But he doesn't want to lie, even if that would be easier. He tells enough lies now that he wants to tell the truth, when he can. "No," he says honestly. Then, compelled to continue being honest, he admits, staring at the carpet, "Not yet."

"For fuck's sake, Castiel, he raped you!"

"I know that!" Castiel yells, meeting Morgan's furious gaze. Then, calmer, "I am fully aware of that."

"And? And you think this is the right thing to do, to start a relationship with a rapist?"

"Dean didn't intend to rape me," Castiel says with forced slowness. "And yes, I know he did anyway, and he should have known better – he did know better – but he's not some irredeemable criminal. It's not the same thing. He's not – that's not who he is."

"So fucking what? That doesn't mean you should have sex with him!"

"Morgan." Castiel swallows. "I still love him."

Morgan points at him. "First off. 'Oh, but officer, I know my husband just beat me into the hospital, but he loves me! Really he does!' Second, you're not in love, you're mentally –"

"Oh, don't even try that," Castiel snaps. He's surprised Morgan went there with the spousal abuse, but then Morgan seems pretty angry right now. "I'm in my right mind. Don't dismiss my feelings as fake because you don't understand them."

"I understand them perfectly well. You're like any other battered spouse, too messed up by what happened to you to see clearly how things really are," Morgan states, his anger apparently burning off into intensity. "Don't think that just because you're a profiler you're somehow immune to psychological manipulation, because I know you're not. I was here for your recovery, Castiel, don't forget that. You struggled to do the simplest of tasks because how badly you were traumatized. The fact that you would go back into that situation tells me you are still psychologically damaged."

Castiel rolls his eyes. He knows that Morgan is worried, that's why he's attacking, but it's getting Castiel's hackles up anyway. "I'll always be scarred, I _know_ that. But I'm not putting myself into the same situation."

"So Dean didn't email me, concerned about you wanting to start a relationship with him?" Morgan asks.

Dean apparently took Castiel's earlier confiding to Morgan to heart. They're going to have to have a talk about that. Castiel doesn't appreciate early morning rants, and he especially doesn't appreciate the lack of warning. "Dean isn't the same, psychologically or emotionally, as when he was when he kidnapped me. Would the Dean Winchester who did that email you because he was worried about me?"

"Dean Winchester never fit any psych profile and managed to cause chaos across the country – and yes," he says, overriding Castiel's attempt to speak, "I know that a lot of that wasn't his fault. But some of it most definitely was, if what you've told me is true. Letting demons out of hell? The apocalypse? Damn near saying yes to an archangel, who would have destroyed the world? How about the wake of dead hunters he's left behind? Has any of that changed? He's dangerous, Castiel, dangerous to you and me and everyone. Just because you want to wield him as a weapon –"

"Dean is not a weapon!" Castiel stands up, fury working through his body.

"You let him out of prison for just that reason, Castiel."

"Because he's a hunter, because he's chosen that life," Castiel retorts. "Not because he's a gun I point at whatever I want. Do you think so little of me, Morgan?"

"I don't know what to think of you, because you're determined to fucking destroy yourself! How many times has he triggered you?"

Castiel looks away. "I'm getting over that."

"Oh, great. That's great. You're getting over fearing the man who gave you PTSD by putting yourself into the same situation that gave you PTSD. I'm so thrilled." Delivered flatly, sarcasm edging every word.

"He's my soulmate, Morgan. You don't – you can't understand." Castiel wishes he could, but it seems like a helpless cause. Even being able to tell Morgan the entire truth, he doesn't understand, doesn't know, not really. "What he is to me. He hurt me, yes, but he loves me so much, and there's so much of him that I love," Castiel says, quieter. "That I always loved, even through all the pain and trauma."

Morgan sits back, looking half defeated and half enraged. An odd mix.

"Taking away that pain and trauma, and the part of Dean that let it happen, has made me realize that more and more clearly," Castiel continues. As the words leave his lips, the meaning of them really unfolds in his mind. Yes. This is what he feels. This is what is guiding his actions. Ever since he and Dean reunited, Castiel's been remembering the good parts. He had to focus on the bad for so long, in order to overcome the wounds it caused. But by necessity he'd put away the good. He licks his lips, thinking, and adds, "I'm stumbling through this, I'll admit that. But you know who has made sure I'm ready every step of the way? Dean. That's why he emailed you. Because he does love me, Morgan, enough to risk losing me by asking you to do exactly what you're doing, trying to talk me out of this. What else would you call that but love?"

"Insanity," Morgan retorts instantly, then turns away with a frustrated growl. "I don't know. I don't even bother trying to understand his mindset. It doesn't really matter. I'm worried about you, not him. And no, I will never trust him or his intentions." Morgan stares Castiel down. "He gave up that right when he kidnapped and raped you."

"But I do trust him," Castiel says softly. "I trust myself, and I trust him."

Morgan shakes his head. "There are some things you can't come back from, Castiel. Dean can't come back from what he did. Neither should you."

"Morgan –"

"That scar on your abdomen," Morgan says, pointing at it. Castiel's hand goes there automatically, half to feel, half to hide. He hasn't thought twice about showing his scars, not in months. "He gave that to you. He beat the shit out of you to prevent you from escaping. I know you have scars on your hip, too, and those are his fault, even if you inflicted them on yourself. He fucked you up so much you sliced yourself to ribbons!"

Castiel's eyes burn. He remembers aching, telling Stephen the truth of those scars. He doesn't like that memory, but he has to face it, has to face every one that Morgan brings up, or Morgan is right. He wipes his eyes, though there's no tears. "I remember, Morgan. I was there."

"Do you?"

"Yes! I was screwed up for a long time, I know that. I suffered through it. Don't tell me I don't remember, because I do. But this isn't – this isn't like any other situation. This is me and him. And nothing about us is normal."

"This is wrong," Morgan growls.

Castiel stands still. For the first time his heart isn't beating fast in anger, but in a kind of anxious joy, because yes – this feels right. To the outsider, no, it never will, but to Castiel with all he knows about Dean, it does. "It's the choice I'm making, nonetheless."

Morgan eyes him for a long moment. "Then say the words to me."

Castiel's throat is dry, but he manages to say it evenly: "Dean raped me, and he hurt me –" and Castiel remembers, oh he remembers everything, all the pain and all the emotional bloodletting trying to get it out, but he's telling the truth, "and I forgive him. I love him, and I want to be with him."

"Castiel …" Morgan's voice isn't frustrated as much as pained and sad. His dark eyes are full of hopeless concern. "Don't do this."

"It's my choice. I want you to respect that."

"I could get you put off active duty," Morgan says. "If I told Hotchner only a tenth of what's really going on, he'd put you back at your desk."

Castiel grits his teeth, but all he says is, "And what would that accomplish?"

Morgan doesn't answer for a good thirty seconds. "You know, you've trapped me as much you were trapped," Morgan says finally. "So many secrets I can't tell, and even if they destroy you, there's nothing I can do."

"There never was," Castiel says simply. "Even if you never learned of the supernatural, this still would have happened, and you wouldn't have been able to do anything about it – what little you would ever figure out – except threaten my job. And I love working with you and the BAU, but as long as I have a choice, I'm going to exercise that choice."

"So that's it? Dean over your job?"

"No. I'm not making that decision. Completing the hunt over my job? Yes. I'll do what I have to do save lives. Dean …" Castiel trails off. "I pray I don't have to make that call. I'm going to do all I can not to. But I do love him, and losing everything once didn't change that." Maybe there's an answer in there, somewhere. "I know what I'm doing. I'm going into this with both eyes open. I know the risks, and I think Dean is worth it."

"I think you're going into this with both eyes closed, letting the echo of what you felt in captivity rule you."

Castiel lets his gaze drift over his living room. His life is nothing like it was in the bunker. His home is solely his. He lives alone, with just Aditi for company. He goes to work, so he doesn't spend much time here at all, really, which is completely unlike the bunker, where he lived constantly for nearly eighteen months. And he has the freedom to leave it any time. Friends who love him, and his brother who loves him even more.

It's a good life. A life he was, and can be, happy with. But in the absences he can also see opportunity; see Dean. He looks back at Morgan. "There's nothing more I can say."

"Same here, apparently."

They stare at each other.

Castiel breaks first, because he truly doesn't want to fight over this. "I'll be careful. That's all I can promise."

"I wish I could force you out of doing this."

"I wouldn't thank you for it. I've had enough of people trying to make decisions for me. I meant it, Morgan, that first day I escaped, when I told you I wouldn't tolerate being locked up. By you, or Dean, or anyone else." Firmly.

Morgan looks away. "I know. And I understand. I'll keep my promise." He sounds defeated.

"Go home, Morgan. Get some sleep. Savannah is probably wondering where you are."

Morgan rises to his feet and goes to the door. He stops only once, to say, "For the sake of everyone else in the BAU … be careful." And then he leaves.

* * *

Two days later, Castiel's knocking on another crappy motel room door. His life has nearly always been one of revolving hotels, but it's even more so lately. From Dean, to home – which for all its comforts, sometimes hardly feels like it, when he's startled that the door is familiar – to another case, and another, and yet another. Then Dean in a motel room. Dean, case, Dean, case.

There was about a year during which Castiel doubted he would ever be living like this again.

Dean answers the door, and gives Castiel an immediate, soft smile. "Hey, Cas. I already got some pizza."

"We need to talk," Castiel says bluntly. Anger simmers.

Dean blinks, but he all he does is nod and step to the side. Castiel enters, smelling the pizza almost immediately, still steaming hot. His stomach grumbles.

"Food first?" Dean says, tilting his head and smirking.

"Food, then you get whipped," Castiel says, his righteous fury draining away. An odd reaction, but then again, maybe not. Castiel always found it hard to maintain anger against Dean, not when Dean would be so good natured in response. Most of the time, anyway. He pops open the pizza box and takes a slice. He takes a bite and then grabs a paper plate that Dean had obviously provided.

"I'm in trouble?" Dean asks, grabbing a slice without bothering with the paper plate.

Castiel nods, his mouth full.

Dean winces. "I can guess. If it helps, I was going to tell you I emailed Morgan."

Castiel sinks onto a bed. "After he talked to me? Was I not supposed to know?"

"I asked him to bring it up gently," Dean admits. "I thought it would be better if it seemed, you know, spontaneous. Instead of us ganging up on you or something."

Castiel snorts. "Total failure on Morgan's part."

"Sorry."

"That's not why you should be sorry," Castiel says, then shoves the rest of the slice in his mouth. He chews, but Dean just waits for him to finish. "You didn't respect my privacy. I didn't give you permission to talk about us."

"Oh. You talked to him before, so I thought …" Dean pauses, contemplative. Then he throws his half eaten pizza on the box, gets up, and begins to pace. "No, yeah. I get you. I just – I'm concerned about your sanity! And – I – I feel really uncertain about this, Cas. Can you understand that I did this for you, but I did it for me, too?"

"Was this a test?"

Dean shakes his head. "None of this is a test. That would mean I'm just feeling insecure, or whatever, and it's more than that. It's – I'm really worried for both of us, Cas, and we can't exactly see each other clearly, can we?"

Castiel thinks of Morgan insisting that Castiel isn't capable of viewing Dean objectively. Insisting that Castiel doesn't really love Dean. "Maybe not entirely, but no one can do that, Dean. For what happened to both of us, we're probably as objective as we're ever going to be."

"Is that enough?" Dean asks frankly.

"I think so, yes," Castiel says evenly.

Dean's gaze shifts around the room, then he gives Castiel a sad smile. "I feel like we've switched places."

Castiel cocks his head.

"I pushed everything aside so I could be certain, so certain that I was doing enough. And you doubted everything. You doubted whether you could love me, if I loved you, if you were capable of surviving me holding you prisoner."

"It's not entirely a bad thing, is it?" Castiel asks. "It was time. For each of us to be in the other's shoes." Because this certainty that he loves Dean, recklessly and stupidly maybe, but love, it must be something like Dean's certainty that Castiel could love him. And that sounds horrible even in his own head, like their mental illnesses have switched, too. Not just their doubts. "We're trying to balance each other and ourselves out, I mean."

Dean looks skeptical. "Yeah, maybe."

"Eat," Castiel tells Dean. "Then we'll talk."

Dinner leads not to them discussing themselves, but Dean's latest solo case, which involved a cursed object. After that, they talk about one of Castiel's recent cases. There are interesting similarities in how they have to approach two entirely different investigations, but Castiel's are definitely more mental, more psychological, whereas Dean's are definitely people-oriented, but that of history. That of generations. It makes Castiel wonder what kind of profiler, or cop, Dean would have been. Smart, but intuitive and instinctive instead of intellectual.

Dean's sprawled across his bed, somewhat sleepy, when Castiel finally does bring up the one thing he wanted to discuss.

"Dean … do you still want, or are you still willing, to give a relationship a try? If I can convince you that I truly want this?"

"I think you want this," Dean says hesitantly. "But I'm not sure it's because you love me. But, yeah. I still, well, either way I still want to see you, if I can. Be your friend."

Castiel nods. "Then you have to communicate with me directly, Dean. Morgan is an outside perspective, yes, and that's important, but it has to be on my terms. And yours."

"So what, you'd need my permission to go into detail about us?"

"Yes."

Dean laughs, disbelieving. He levers himself up and raises an eyebrow. "I don't think I have that right."

"I say that you do, as the person I want to be with."

After a moment, Dean's face goes serious. "Okay. Thanks, Cas."

Castiel gets up from his bed, abandoning his paper plate, and sits next to Dean. "Why do you always get two beds, Dean? Even when you don't know if I'm coming?"

Dean actually starts. "You noticed that? Never mind, of course you did."

"So?"

Dean frowns, but not at Castiel. "Even when you were in the bunker, and I was going on hunts alone, I always got two beds. Didn't after Sam died, for those two years I was alone. I didn't want to look over there and expect to see his duffel or his feet hanging over the edge, you know? It was a conscious thing, to make me stop looking for him. But after you – after I kidnapped you, I always got two." He shrugs. "Didn't think about it much at first. I didn't like thinking stuff through back then. But I guess it was hope."

Castiel heart aches. "So you hope that one day I'll be here, hunting with you?"

"At first, it was two because I didn't want to assume you'd, you know, want to share a bed with me." Dean grimaces, gives Castiel a wry look. "Then, now, I don't want to assume the same thing. But still be ready, if you want to be here. Just in case," he finishes softly.

Castiel says nothing, throat tight.

"I guess you can tell I've been in therapy. Over thinking everything."

Castiel laughs. "Better than the opposite. Usually, anyway."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, expression fond.

"I set an alarm for around four in the morning," Castiel begins.

Dean blinks.

"I'd like to spend that time with you, even if only sleeping. I have to go into work, but I can spend some time here." Castiel pauses. "In this bed. With you."

"Just sleeping," Dean says, half a question.

"Yes. Just sleeping."

Dean silently undresses to boxers and a t-shirt. He slides under the covers. It's only ten, but early enough for Castiel doze off. He takes off his dress shirt and slacks, so he's only as dressed as Dean is, and then joins him. Dean lets Castiel touch his hip, draw him in so they're touching from thigh to shoulder. In a weird way, it reminds Castiel of when he first made that deal with Dean, communication with Balthazar in return for letting Dean sleep next to him. They're both rather shy. And Castiel isn't, of course, terrified like he was the first time. He's the aggressor in this case, the one asking for it, and Dean reluctantly letting those boundaries fall.

In the darkness, faint light from the hotel's vacancy sign coming through the drapes, Castiel asks, "What would it take, Dean, to convince you that I love you?"

Dean shifts against Castiel and the sheets, a restless motion. "I don't know, Cas. I'm not sure that kind of evidence exists, I guess."

"It would have been so much easier to hate you, Dean. But I never did, even when I wanted to."

"That's not –"

"Proof?" Castiel is silent for a second. "When I build a case as a law enforcement officer, it's a thousand small pieces that make a larger picture. Very rarely do any cases have that single, crucial piece of evidence. Certainly not while solving them, while coming to the conclusion."

"One piece of the puzzle, huh?" Dean whispers.

"One piece," Castiel says simply.

* * *

Things are uneasy between Morgan and Castiel for the next few weeks, to the degree that the rest of the team notices. JJ draws Castiel aside and asks him about it, and all he can tell her is that it was a personal disagreement, and it won't affect their working together. JJ seems reluctantly satisfied. Castiel is pretty sure that Hotchner talks to Morgan, and what he wouldn't give to be a fly on that wall. He doesn't envy Morgan the tightrope that conversation must have been.

Then Savannah goes into labor.

Two hours later, there's a child abduction in Massachusetts. Morgan stays behind. The case is solved, though not after two more deaths. Savannah gives birth to a boy, and Morgan goes on paternity leave.

They're wrapping up the paperwork when Hotchner walks into the conference room set aside for their use and says, "Wheels up in two hours. We're heading to Ohio. A local police department thinks they've found another group of the vampire cultists."

Castiel texts Morgan the info, casually, and hopes Morgan knows he needs to warn Dean. Castiel's burner cell remains in the pot in his kitchen; he has no way to contact Dean. Realistically, Morgan can't even tell Castiel if he does, not on his own cell. Those records could be looked at. There's a reason they kept all their conversations about the case in person.

After a nap on the plane, Rossi debriefs the rest of the team on what he's found out.

"I've looked over the files the Lake Prairie PD sent to us," Rossi says as their plane begins the slow approach to the airport. He was the only one not sleep-deprived, because he spent a restful night in the hospital being observed for a head injury. "It was our bulletin that got their attention. They'd had a number of bodies show up with slashed necks, but there were visible puncture wounds in most of the cases. The detectives on the case didn't connect it to ours, so they investigated on their own for several weeks. They were able to connect all the victims to one man, who they weren't able to identify, but they were able to follow. He went to a place that used to be a camp for disturbed youth, that shut down about ten years ago. The camp has fences, and the current owners absolutely refused to speak to the detectives when they came questioning, or even let them on the property."

"They didn't drop it, I'm assuming," Castiel says.

"No," Rossi says. "They definitely didn't. However, they were smart enough to make it appear like they had, while they did some more digging. Local records show that there's been construction on the property, though what exactly no one can seem to say. But enough to make a five thousand square foot building, or revamp all the camp buildings."

JJ is flipping through her copy. "And barbed wire?"

"According to a local seller, they were worried about wolves."

"When they did they connect it to our case?" Castiel asks.

"Not long after that. One of the victims was the daughter of a local councilman. It got a lot of media attention, and more detectives were assigned to the case. One of them had seen our bulletin sent out to the state police."

Hotchner frowns. "Is there probable cause to go onto the property?"

"That's what the entire PD is looking for one now," Rossi tells him. "They want our help with that, or failing that, convincing them to let us on, using our 'psychobabble.'"

Castiel smiles into his hand. "Well, we can certainly give it a try." Though he doubts vampires would be susceptible to any tricks the BAU would use, considering the BAU thinks they're delusional, which they are not. Evil, yes. Crazy, no. In fact, any kind of interaction is probably unwise. He'll have to try to dissuade the rest of the team from that.

Along with a lot of other things.

The FBI isn't exactly equipped to handle the blood-drinking undead. What happens when the FBI or local PD shoots and shoots, and they don't go down? Body armor's a good explanation if the vampires escape, but what if they're brought in? Vampires have been largely extinct since modern forensics and medical care. Yes, the team could probably twist it around to some kind of extensive surgery, but what about Castiel? What does he do in that scenario?

"We'll have to view the evidence they have so far before we can make any concrete conclusions," Hotchner decides. "Or decisions."

Castiel nods. "We should acquaint the detectives in charge with our profile, see if this group differs in any way."

"Agreed," Rossi says. "Penelope is currently doing research – she should be ready to give us some results by the time we land."

"Everyone, look over our old files," Hotchner orders. "We need to hit the ground running on this."

Castiel gets his laptop and opens it up. But instead of reading, he stares at the screen and thinks. He needs to connect the case he and Dean attempted to handle with this one. Hostages would give probable cause. So far, there's only been dead bodies, but if there are a lot of missing, he can use that. He and Dean failed to rescue those victims. The FBI might fail to kill the vampires, but if they can save civilian lives, if live humans are being kept on the campgrounds as live food, then getting the FBI involved quickly is worth it.

Dean might hit their investigation, that's true. But Castiel can't communicate with Dean, so he can't depend on that or worry about it. Dean will be careful. He'll know the FBI is on their way.

* * *

No one sees any sign of Dean or any other hunters, including Castiel, who asks the officers if anyone else – reporters, other law enforcement – has come around asking questions. It's not exactly reassuring.

Castiel knocks on the table next to where Hotchner is studying case files. The rest of the team is elsewhere, talking with officers and grabbing lunch, respectively.

Hotchner looks up, politely curious. "What is it?"

Castiel sits. "I've been looking over case files across the US over the past six months, often without much but instinct guiding me. This is reminding me of another case I read about. I think it might be related to these cult members."

Hotchner straightens. "Do you have the file?"

Castiel opens his FBI issue laptop and turns it so Hotchner can see the screen. He waits for Hotchner to read the summary, then skim the in-depth report on the ranch that Castiel and Dean started to burn down, with victims still inside. There's not a lot to connect the case to the vampires – since the bodies were burned, there's no physical evidence there. But one of the patches of unburned building was the kitchen, with the bags of donated blood. It's flimsy. Really flimsy. But it's all Castiel has to convince Hotchner that they are related.

Because it occurred to Castiel as the plane settled on solid ground that if the ranch, being out of the way, had live victims, it's likely this camp does as well.

"How did you find this?" Hotchner finally asks.

"Looking for cases where blood was a key part of the crime, or an unexplained part." This is sort of true. To make his search history look less weird, that's what he did. None of the others seemed related, to his relief. "The important thing is … if they are connected, then we have hostages on that property."

"This isn't enough for a warrant, not nearly enough," Hotchner points out. "I'm not even convinced they're related."

Castiel spreads his hands. "Give it to Penelope, to the rest of the team. Maybe we can come up with something. It's a possible lead, isn't it?"

Hotchner eyes him. "Why didn't you tell me you were so invested in this case?"

"What do you mean? I'm just doing my job."

Hotchner sighs, but only says, "I'll present it to the rest of the team."

Four hours later, Castiel tries to convince the team – without appearing to be anything but a devil's advocate – not to attempt trickery to get on the property. The local PD is pushing for that hard. Castiel ends up delivering so many counter arguments that even Reid is giving him an odd look.

An hour after that, Penelope breaks the case for them.

Three weeks earlier, a medical supplies company delivered supplies directly to the camp. IVs and blood bags were the main things ordered. They were ordered by the same credit card and false identity as the ranch house, which ordered the same thing in a lesser amount.

It's enough. They get the warrant, and judging from the numbers from the ranch and previous locations, they begin a full raid using local law enforcement because a federal-run raid would take too long to coordinate. They don't have the time to prove that the case is federal and snatch it from the locals, then procure sufficient agents, and plan it.

Four days ago, enough blood bags were delivered to drain thirty people.

* * *

The FBI is going in blind. So blind. If something goes wrong, it will be Castiel's fault. But the truth can't leave his lips – they wouldn't believe it, and Morgan isn't here to provide any kind of backup.

Vampires can't be killed by gunfire. But if they're smart, a total confrontation with police isn't in their best interest – they'll break and run, rather than face being incarcerated.

Plus. Bullets still hurt.

* * *

The vampire compound sits on about a hundred acres in a pretty heavily wooded area, much of it thick evergreens. The plans submitted to the local county give them a fairly good idea about what they'll be going into. Six main buildings – cafeteria, first aid, administration, crafts, a church and a meeting hall – plus two dozen small cabins. Of course, what's been done since then will likely change that. The largest building is the old cafeteria, and that's the most likely to keep any hostages, since it's easier to keep hostages together and in a confined area. The cabins would work, but they're probably too small to keep hostages and guards in the same space.

Still, the plan is relatively simple: with the help of the SWAT teams pulled from neighboring cities, they'll raid all six buildings at the same time, giving the hostage-takers no time to react. Once those are secured they'll move onto the small cabins. Local police will stay behind, ready to deal with any victims and provide backup. Multiple ambulances will be present, though it won't go in until the whole camp is cleared.

Each SWAT team is being given one of the BAU, including Castiel. It's been two months since Castiel had to have a partner at all times. On the spot hostage negotiation is something the BAU's done in the past, though only by necessity. Hotchner has an expert flying in, hopefully in time.

Fortunately, the raid is scheduled for early, early morning. The sun will be up, if only barely. The vampires should be going to sleep, asleep, or sluggish.

Castiel wakes up at two in the morning with a bad feeling in his gut. As he takes a short shower and brushes his teeth, he contemplates why. Is it because this is a hunt? The fact that so many vampires are going to be attacking SWAT officers who don't know what they're up against? SWAT is incredibly highly trained, he knows that, but even with the warning of delusional behavior – like trying to feed on their blood – what if something completely random happens? What if the vampires are using magic? They've never done so before, not noticeably, but their leader was smart enough to kill at least five hunters, and they did know what they were up against. Are more than thirty ignorant officers equal to five knowledgeable hunters?

The bad feeling doesn't change throughout the three hours of prep and briefing. He slides into the nondescript van that SWAT team two will take to the campsite with a roiling gut, though of course he doesn't let that show. He double checks all his tactical gear.

"Sir, you ready?" his SWAT commander asks.

"I'm ready, Captain," Castiel replies. "I'll do my best to stay out of your way. My job here is to help you with any kind of hostage situation, not go in shooting."

"Good to hear you're not a lone cowboy type," the commander says, smirking. "My boys are all team players."

Castiel smiles briefly back. "So am I."

There's an actual two lane road up to the camp, though admittedly it's a narrow one. One of the other vans stops and breaks the lock on the gate, and then they're moving again. Castiel can hear Hotch and one of the other SWAT commanders – the one chosen to oversee the whole raid – giving directions and reminding officers the plan, through his own earpiece.

Four officers will go ahead and insert small robots with cameras onto the camp itself, so they can get a look at where the hostage-takers and hostages are. Then, and only then, do they go in.

The vans stop a half mile, and out of sight, of the camp, still on the road. It's a tense twenty minutes while Castiel and the rest of the BAU wait for the SWAT officers to get cameras in position. The van feels claustrophobic. But only five minutes overdue, video flickers on the tablet in Castiel's hands.

Six feeds, no audio. The cafeteria, camera one, shows two dozen or so people sleeping on the floor, on dirty blankets. Even on the black and white feed, they look pale and thin. The camera pans, showing blood lines attached to a few of the prisoners, slowly filling bags normally used to hold donated blood. There are three guards, who look bored and sleepy, holding AK-47s. Everyone else is expecting that, but Castiel is surprised.

There's no sign of other guards or cult members. Vampires, Castiel reminds himself. Even if no one else believes it, he has to.

There's no one outside, which is a 'lucky' bonus but one of the few things Castiel expected to see, considering how sunlight is intensely uncomfortable for vampires.

"We've got our targets," the SWAT commander says, a note of satisfaction there. "Allens, Boyer, Lopez – you've got the hostages."

"Alphabetical order, boss?" one officers asks cheekily.

The SWAT commander ignores him. "The rest are with me. I'll enter first with Stevens. We'll be focusing on the three shooters. If we do our job, Agent Novak here doesn't do squat."

"I'll happily do squat," Castiel says dryly. He'll be armed and following, but he'll only take charge when the SWAT commander calls for it.

He listens as the SWAT commander organizes his team further, then they wait for the other teams to give the go order.

"Go go GO!"

Seven SWAT officers run out ahead of Castiel. They do so silently, the only sound that of their thumping boots as they move through early morning mist. Castiel can see the five other squads – and accompanying BAU members – split off to their destinations. For now, it's all going perfectly to plan. They should arrive on the camp, in sight, at the same time.

Castiel has his gun pulled, of course, but he follows the SWAT team's lead. They don't announce their presence, just kick in the door to the cafeteria; the church is in sight and Castiel can see Hotchner's team doing the same thing. That's the last he sees of them as he focuses on his team.

Two officers enter the building at the same time, sweeping the area. Then another two man team, followed the three that are going to cover the hostages. Castiel last.

Gunfire.

He sees the officers in front of him returning fire and moving forward. He keeps his gun down, waiting for his own clear line of fire. "Stay down!" is shouted, presumably at the victims sleeping on the floor. There's a loud pop as a smoke bomb is thrown – not at the vampires, but at the space between the vampires and victims, so the vampires don't have a clear shot at either the hostages or the officers who will attempt to rescue them.

Castiel gets his first good look at the cafeteria in person when the three officers assigned to the hostages run forward under cover of fire from their teammates and start dragging hostages away from the middle of the building and the middle of the firefight. The SWAT team has split up to effectively cover the large room, which is about a hundred and fifty feet in length and a hundred wide. Half destroyed tables litter the area, though the hostages are all on the floor, apart from any shielding structures. An office with an open door – it looks empty – sits near the entrance to the kitchen, which is open to the cafeteria. It also looks empty.

Four officers are exchanging fire with the three vampires, who have ducked behind a table, with papers littered around. The table doesn't look bulky enough to stop bullets, but Castiel knows that's not entirely relevant. On the other hand, the officers firing at them are moving sideways, making themselves hard targets; they don't have good cover, and probably won't find it until the hostages are fully out of the way.

Castiel pops off two shots at one of the vampires who tries to look over the edge of the table.

"Headshots!" Castiel shouts into his ear piece. He can dimly hear other gunfire, but he doesn't get an order from the SWAT commander overseeing the whole operation. Things are, for the moment, going to plan.

The officer next to him instantly reacts to Castiel's order, finding a chair to steady his fire and then taking three quick but carefully aimed shots at the one who is looking at them. His partner does the same.

Two of the vampires fall, presumably dead – though again, Castiel knows they aren't, just stunned and in pain – but the last keeps firing blindly, still ducked behind the table.

Until he doesn't. He runs for a dark corner of the cafeteria, sliding on the floor before regaining his feet and bursting through one of windows. Two officers take off after him at their commander's order, knocking the rest of the glass aside before vaulting out and giving chase.

Castiel lets out a relieved breath, even though it's not over. They're reacting like he thought they would, initially putting up a fight and then fleeing to preserve their cover.

He doesn't follow, instead assisting the remaining SWAT members in clearing the building. Each echo of, "Clear! Clear!" is reassuring to hear. The thunk of boots doesn't overshadow the sound of sobbing hostages, but Castiel can't focus on them yet. There are empty, used blood bags scattered around the room, and a few boxes of new supplies in the corner. The floor is grimy, with layers of old blood under dirt. It makes Castiel sick to see it, and he wonders how many human bodies they're going to find in the camp. Or under it.

"Upper cafeteria clear!" comes across their radio channel.

Castiel turns to get a good look at the hostages, and sees that they are stumbling to their feet, recognizing the officers for what they are. Rescue. There are about thirty of them, like they saw on the robot's video. Castiel heads for an adult man who isn't crying and looks calmer than the others. Castiel kneels so he's not in a threatening posture, his gun pointed down but not holstered; it's not quite safe enough for that yet.

"Sir, do you know if there any others guarding you?" Castiel asks.

The man shakes his head. "No – I mean, no, there aren't. Those two … they weren't human." He looks haunted. "They had the guns but they didn't even need them, they just ripped off Judy's head." He swallows. "There are others, though, outside. And sometimes they'd take one of us and there'd be screams, but I don't know how many."

"Are there any other hostages? In any other building?"

"Not alive," the man says quietly. "Sometimes we'd see the bodies when they were done."

"Okay. We're going to keep you here, but more police are on their way. They're going to come get you and take you to safety, all right?"

The man finally starts to cry. "Oh God. Thank you. God."

Though he feels horrible doing it, Castiel leaves him and goes to the SWAT commander. "Are they sending in the Lake Prairie PD?"

"They're on their way," he answers.

Castiel glances at the 'dead' vampires, who are unmoving. The SWAT team thinks this building is clear, but it isn't – not really. Castiel wishes he had the Colt, or something like that. Though weird bullets would likely be as difficult to explain as a beheading.

Local PD rushes in and starts taking hostages out, some of them carried on stretchers. Castiel goes to the main channel, and hears that two of the other teams have cleared their targets, but the remaining three are still exchanging gunfire and haven't cleared their buildings. One of the free teams went to provide backup, and the other started clearing cabins. He hears they've found some kind of blood bank, and 'cult objects.' Castiel's stomach twists.

Minutes later, the two officers who went after the escaping vampire report they've lost him in the forest and are returning to base.

The vampires here are still playing dead. Or recovering. Castiel is twitchy, just looking at them. Fortunately, the officers made sure all the weapons were out of reach, clips emptied and separated from the weapons.

An explosion sounds off close enough to rattle all the windows.

"Fuck," the SWAT commander mutters, hand going to his earpiece. "Allen, Boyens, get the last of the hostages out!" He pauses, listening to what Castiel is listening to, mainly confusion. The other teams are reporting hearing the explosion, but it's in none of their buildings.

The SWAT commander in charge of the operation orders Castiel's SWAT team to investigate.

"Agent –" the commander begins.

"Go, I'll slow you down," which is only partially Castiel's reasoning. "They've got an office here, I'll see if I can find anything useful." And take care of the vampires pretending to be dead, if possible.

He watches the officers leave. He watches the 'dead' vampires while he heads for the office; there's really no way for him to kill them effectively, especially if they're playing dead. FBI agents don't go around wielding machetes or attacking corpses.

"Cas?"

Despite the nickname, Castiel draws his gun and whirls.

Dean is climbing out of the floor.

"Dean? What are you doing?" Then, "What is that? A tunnel?"

Then the vampires wake up.

One goes for Castiel, and Castiel almost immediately loses track of Dean in the fight for his life. He'd hoped they'd have run, but apparently not – the vampire rushes at him and Castiel fires twice, headshots; one hits, but the vampire is only momentarily stunned, more blood flowing down his face. His teeth flash, long and sharp. The delay gives Castiel time to reach for the knife at his boot, and when the vampire – disarmed, but still deadly – reaches him, Castiel drives his knife into the vampire's neck with one hand. He's been training for this moment, to have the strength to do this.

Blood gushes and the vampire snarls, trying to grab Castiel's wrist. But it's clumsy, inexperienced. Even though the vampire is stronger, Castiel uses that to his advantage and leans into the vampire's momentum to slice through half of the vampire's neck. His wrist slips out of reach as he can feel the blade hitting the spinal cord and skittering across bone.

Keeping his grip on his knife, Castiel kicks the vampire in the chest. The blade comes free with another spurt of blood, and then there's the flash of a machete –

The vampire's head neatly separates from his shoulders. Dean, face splattered with blood, stands there and watches as the vampire's body crumples to the ground.

Behind him, Castiel can see the other vampire, also beheaded.

Castiel's gun in his left hand, his knife in his right.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks.

Castiel raises his weapon, nodding slightly. Hoping Dean gets it. "I'm fine, Dean. What are you doing here?"

Dean seems to. He doesn't drop the machete, but he takes a step back, glancing around, watchful for anyone returning who could witness this. "Well, you know me. Delusional killer and all." He smirks, but there's no anger there. He's almost joking with Castiel. "Their leader's here. Blew that tunnel –" he nods at the hatch that'd previously been hidden in the corner of the room, "getting away from me. She's out in the woods." Dean's face goes serious. "I have to take this chance, Cas, to kill this bitch. Her head rolling on the ground will end this."

Castiel just looks at him for a moment. "Make it look good. Don't hold back."

There's only a moment of pain on Dean's face before he attacks.

He fires once over Dean's shoulder, and then Dean is on him and going for his gun. It's a strain to keep his reactions a second slower, but Castiel does it, and loses his weapon in the process. He and Dean have sparred enough – even it was a year ago – that in a serious fight there's a decent chance that he would win. Three quick strikes, two of which Castiel blocks, the last hitting his face. Dean tries to dump Castiel on his ass, but Castiel evades, only to get pistol-whipped.

Head ringing, Castiel falls. Blood in his eyes, he shifts on the ground, moaning in genuine pain. Dean gives him an agonized look, and heads out the broken window.

Castiel lets himself lay there, semi-conscious. He needs to give Dean time.

He's startled when the SWAT commander on his team is suddenly kneeling by his side, less than two minutes later. "Which way did he go?" The commander looks at the window suspiciously.

"It was Dean Winchester," Castiel says, slurring his words a little. Then, "He went out the door." He can't have SWAT following Dean too closely, or Dean's mission will fail.

The SWAT commander starts speaking into his earpiece. Castiel lets his eyes close.

* * *

Castiel scratches at the IV in his hand. He really wishes they would take it out entirely, but at least they're no longer insisting on fluids, so he doesn't have to drag the entire IV bag plus stand with him everywhere. The room's lights have been turned down, since Castiel kept complaining it was giving him a headache. His head still hurts, and pain flares up from his temple intermittently, where Dean pistol-whipped him. He's fine otherwise, really. A few bruises, but nothing important. He wishes he could tell Dean that, because he's sure Dean is worried.

He's heard a few details since being hospitalized. A lot of the vampires escaped, and like Castiel had assumed, both SWAT and the BAU are assuming that the vampires had body armor. They all took dozens of shots, though most eventually escaped through other tunnels that connected buildings and cabins. A few bodies ended up at the morgue.

Castiel wonders how long they'll stay there.

JJ enters his room, shaking her head at Castiel's curious expression. "We didn't find Winchester. But we did find another body in the woods, one of the vampire cultists – determined that from the prosthetics that were surgically implanted. A woman, so none of us saw her during the raid."

Castiel nods, struggling to hide the torrent of relief he feels. Dean did it. That must be her, the leader. "Do you know how he turned up here?"

"No, not yet. Obviously he thinks this group is composed of real vampires, but how he found about them is a mystery." JJ pauses, then sits down in the visitor's chair. "Are you doing okay? It's the first time you've seen him since his escape, and he hurt you."

"I'm all right," Castiel says honestly. "It was a shock to see him, but he wasn't there for me."

"You seem sure about that."

"He beheaded two people," Castiel points out. "Three."

JJ's eyes narrow. "Yeah, that was weird. You said one of them attacked you?"

"I don't know how to explain it," but going as truthful as possible is better than lying, "but he apparently was playing dead. Then Dean showed up." Castiel shrugs. "It's a bit blurry."

"But no concussion?"

"Not according to the doctors," Castiel says. "Hopefully I'm released in a few hours."

"Most of us are staying at the camp, going through what we found," JJ says. "There's a lot to unravel about what, exactly, they were intending on doing."

"I bet," Castiel says dryly.

"You mind if I …?"

"No, you go ahead and help," Castiel says easily. "I'll be fine."

"We're leaving a few officers outside your door, just in case," JJ adds.

"Thank you."

Four hours and a nap later, Castiel is finally released. The officers left at his room escort him to the station, and then return to their normal duties. The rest of the BAU is still going through the evidence that was collected, including Penelope examining the files left on the few laptops that the camp had. As far as they're concerned, this is a large unit of the cult, but they have no idea that Dean chopped off the head of the organization – quite literally. So they're treating it as a continuing investigation.

Castiel grabs a muffin from the nearly empty box on the conference table. "What did we find?"

"An extensive psychosis," Rossi says dryly. "But very organized. They've been using runaways to boost their numbers, but there's notes about how to turn them into vampires, and how to control their vampire urges once that's done. I'm wondering if there's not some drugs involved, considering the violence some of these notes talk about."

"It's possible the higher-ups in the cult are drugging their members as part of the ruse," JJ adds, "to convince their victims that they're now really vampires." She looks at Reid, who didn't even notice Castiel come in. "Reid is trying to figure out a code. We're pretty sure it lists the locations of the other groups of cultists."

Dean would need to know about that. "It's encoded? That's interesting, considering they seemed to feel pretty safe here."

"Whoever is in charge of this group is fairly intelligent and cautious," JJ agrees. "It doesn't help that there are missing documents. I don't know if you've heard yet, but we found the other side of that tunnel that Dean came out of. He wiped it clean. So we've only got partial records to go on."

"The tunnel was what blew up, right?" Castiel asks.

"Yes," Rossi confirms. He eyes Castiel. "Did Winchester tell you that?"

Castiel nods, sitting down and finishing off his muffin. "I was … surprised to see him, to say the least. I asked where he came from, and he said 'she' blew the tunnel to get away from him."

"Did he say anything else?" Hotchner asks, walking in and giving Castiel a very careful look over. "It could help our investigation."

Castiel thinks about it. "Just that he had to get 'her' who he didn't further identify. Then he attacked me to put me out of commission."

"You don't think he wanted to hurt you?" Hotchner asks.

Dean never really does. "No. It was just necessary as part of his delusional mission." Castiel looks away from Hotchner's intense gaze. "Does anyone need help?"

* * *

They stay three more days.

Over those three days, local FBI offices raid five buildings that Reid was able to identify from the encoded list. All have vampire cultists, and four had victims.

At the same time, there are seven separate murder scenes, all the same: beheaded people with surgically implanted teeth prosthetics. A few had victims that claimed to be rescued by strange men, who were clearly not police. Four positively identified Dean Winchester as one of the culprits, calling him a 'hero' who saved them. The other men with him remain unidentified. In total, thirty one dead bodies show up.

To call it as mass spree killing is an understatement.

Dean Winchester, escaped fugitive and serial killer, goes back to the top of the BAU's list.

Castiel is taken off the case, of course. He manages the other cases the BAU is overseeing or assisting on, for the most part.

He goes home.

Aditi is out on a walk – his neighbor left a note – so Castiel heads immediately to the pot on top of his fridge, turns it on, and looks to see if there's any texts.

Just one, from Dean. _Are you okay?_

Castiel smiles in his empty apartment, sigils hidden on his walls, and a bookcase of pink, homemade items. _Yes._

* * *

The vampire cult case continues to unfold bizarrely with disappearing corpses, but even the BAU can see it petering off. More groups are showing up dead – raising Dean's known kill count to fifty-five – and the two major bases that the BAU found through Reid's code breaking were largely abandoned, with members drifting away. Just as James, and then Dean, predicted, once the mated pair of leaders died, the effort to organize slowly disintegrated. Castiel doesn't have access to the case files or meetings, of course, but he gets the gist just from being in the same office. Castiel's theory of vigilantism for Dean's crimes gains credence, amusingly enough.

Still. The team is acting a little oddly around him. He's not sure why, if it was something they found out about Dean, or something more worrying. Dean continues to text him normally, though, so he puts it out of his mind.

Early Monday morning, Hotchner calls Castiel into his office.

Castiel moves to sit, but Hotchner says, "Close the door."

Raising his eyebrow, Castiel obeys, then settles easily into one of the two chairs opposite Hotchner's desk. A few family photos are the only decorations; Hotchner, when at work, is always focused. He's applying that focus to Castiel now. "Is something wrong, Hotch?"

Hotchner's face doesn't change. He's not terribly expressive at the best of times, but he's damn near unreadable right now. "Yes. Something is wrong, Castiel, and that's what worries me."

Castiel tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"Several pieces of concerning evidence have arisen during our latest case," Hotchner begins. "Castiel, I want to give the chance to come clean. For your sake, and the sake of your career." He pauses. "We're worried about you. All of us."

A glimmer of panic begins to work its way through Castiel's mind. Hotchner is approaching this systematically, he can see that. Them alone, in Hotchner's office, is a sign of authority; but his words are all sympathy, all concern. He's trying to bridge the two to elicit a particular reaction from Castiel. That means Castiel has to be careful here. Every reaction is going to be noted and examined. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"Did you think we wouldn't figure it out?" Calm. Certain.

Designed to break Castiel's confidence. Castiel doesn't have to fake his confusion, though. "I don't know what you're talking about, and I'm not going to play twenty questions."

"We've been hunting Dean Winchester for two weeks, Castiel. Looking at every pattern, every place he could have been, every sighting of his car."

Castiel lets out an irritated breath. "Get to the point."

Hotchner leans back. "I'm giving you one last chance to keep this as off the record as we can. To protect you. But you have to tell me the truth."

It could be so many things, so many details – but in the end, they all have to come to one of two things, and that's Dean or this case. Dean, or Castiel as a hunter. Castiel stares at Hotchner, pasting a confused look on his face while thinking, but there's no way he can simply confess to either of those. To meeting Dean, to knowing Dean, or to believing in the supernatural. He knows there's been subtle inconsistencies in his behavior when it comes to the vampire case, and the few others that turned into supernatural hunts, but he doesn't know which one this could be. There are too many possibilities for Castiel to manipulate this.

Too many lies that could have been discovered.

"Hotch, just tell me."

Hotchner looks away from Castiel to his computer, taps his keyboard, and then moves the screen so Castiel can see it.

After a moment, a video begins to play. Castiel recognizes it immediately.

It's the cafeteria. More specifically, it's the video from the SWAT robot that checked out the cafeteria right before Castiel and the SWAT team came in.

Shit.

Hoping his expression is blank, Castiel waits.

He watches himself walk into view, frowning at the vampire bodies on the ground, then moving past them out of view, before walking back again. He watches as he reacts to Dean, unheard, whirling around and drawing his weapon. The vampire attacks him, and they move offscreen as they struggle. Dean appears on camera, beheading the other one that starts getting up, and then the other.

They have their brief conversation, and Castiel silently thanks the universe that there's no audio.

Castiel fires – misses, and pretty obviously so – and then Dean attacks him. Without intending to, he touches his forehead where Dean pistol whipped him as he watches it on the camera. He winces as he watches himself fall, hard. Dean stares at Castiel on the ground for a moment, with that same pained look that Castiel remembers, and then walks away, out of sight. Hotchner taps his keyboard and the video freezes there.

Hotchner says, "He went to the right."

Castiel blinks. "What?"

"You told the SWAT leader that he went out the door. He didn't. He went the opposite direction. In fact, you were very specific in giving the wrong direction."

"I must have made a mistake –"

"Don't lie. You're in enough trouble already."

Castiel snaps his mouth shut.

Hotchner doesn't speak for several moments. Then, slow and without pause, "I don't blame you for missing that shot, or Winchester taking you down. But lying to protect him is another matter entirely."

Castiel doesn't lose his cool. "I was just hit pretty hard with the butt of a gun, Hotch." In fact, he wonders if that's why Dean chose that method of attack.

"There wasn't enough conclusive evidence for me to act on when Morgan first came to me. The sigils on your wall and your new tattoo were odd, yes. But only odd. Your behavior with regards to Dean Winchester was almost entirely expected in that all trauma victims react differently, save for the fact that you ignored his serial murders when you discussed him. As if those crimes didn't exist." Hotchner pauses, but Castiel doesn't speak. "Missing pieces, Castiel. When I looked at Dean Winchester's case, and you, I always saw missing pieces. When Morgan brought me the video of you seemingly saying goodbye to Winchester, when he said to you, 'Don't ask her' that was suggestive, but not evidence of wrongdoing on your part. Not evidence of you keeping something back in order to protect a very dangerous criminal."

Castiel remains silent. He needs to hear everything to react properly, but his heart is racing, and the urge to speak – though he has no idea what he'd say – is getting stronger. To defend himself, but he can't. He can't.

"But this? This wasn't a mistake. More than fifty people are dead because you deliberately lead law enforcement in the wrong direction, and the fact that those fifty people were potentially criminals doesn't change the fact that they were murdered. I had to do my due diligence, Castiel, and investigate the matter. To see if one of my own agents had gone perilously off course."

"What am I being accused of?" Castiel asks calmly. At least on the outside.

"You know that all FBI agents carry a work cell with them, and we keep records of where those cells are pinged." Hotchner turns over a photo on his desk and holds it out.

Castiel takes it. It's a picture of Castiel at one of the motels he met Dean at, presumably taken by a security camera across the street, judging from the angle. And beneath it, with a timestamp a few hours later, was a picture of Dean. Castiel can't look away. Dean was always so careful to choose motels that didn't have security cameras. Castiel always had an excuse ready, a place nearby he went to for some reason, but this he can't explain away so easily. Not them both in exactly the same spot, even a few hours apart.

"Why have you been meeting Dean Winchester, Castiel?"

"So he's been stalking me –"

"You're suspended, as of now."

Castiel lets out a rough breath. He lets outrage filter onto his face, because that's the reaction of an innocent person. He's not innocent, not in this, but he can act.

"There's no reason for you to be there, Castiel. None. Obstruction of justice is a serious charge. If you don't cooperate, Castiel, I can't protect you."

"I have no information to give you – there's nothing for me to add, I haven't done anything wrong."

"None to give, and none you are willing to give?" Hotchner asks quietly.

"I'm being investigated?" Castiel asks, switching approaches, barely keeping his voice even.

"Yes. You won't return to work until the investigation is complete, you're cleared, and an FBI psychologist sees you."

Castiel finally looks up from the photo. "And do you expect I'll be cleared?"

For the first time, Hotchner looks away. "I can't speak regarding an ongoing investigation, you know that."

That's a no. Castiel's eyes sting with tears, and his heart beats to the tune of panic. All he does, though, is nod his understanding. "I'm sorry you've been put into this position, Hotch." And he is. He remembers Morgan telling him to be careful, not just for his own sake, but the rest of the team's. He gets that now.

Hotchner's answer is soft. "I know."

Castiel's hands shake a little when he takes out his badge and FBI issue weapon. He puts them both on Hotchner's desk. "I'll talk to a FBIAA attorney."

"Good." Hotchner rises to his feet.

Castiel imitates him out of habit, his legs surprisingly holding him up.

Hotchner holds out his hand. Castiel doesn't take it immediately, instead looking into Hotchner's eyes. He sees sadness there, instead of anger. So he takes Hotchner's hand, and shakes it, and thinks that this may very well be goodbye. "Let me help you," Hotchner says, not letting go.

"I didn't do anything wrong," Castiel denies, then: "It's not that simple." It's the closest he will ever get to a confession.

Hotchner lets him go. "I'll have security escort you to your car."

Castiel just nods. It's standard protocol. As of this moment, Castiel no longer has a security clearance. He leaves Hotchner's office and closes the door behind him.

JJ and Reid are there, looking anxious. "Castiel," Reid begins.

Castiel sharply shakes his head. "Don't."

"Let us help you," JJ tries.

"I didn't do anything wrong," Castiel says. And it's not even really a lie. "But right now, I think it's best if I just go. So please, don't."

JJ stares at Castiel for a long moment, but doesn't approach, probably sensing Castiel would reject any kind of contact right now.

Reid only says, "I meant what I said, on that first day. And I still mean it." Nothing will ever make us lose respect for you.

Castiel's throat goes tight, and he looks away. "Thank you."

Security arrives. Some of them Castiel recognizes, and they may recognize him in return, because they look uncomfortable. He gives them an easy smile and says, "Lead the way."

He doesn't take his FBI issue laptop, or anything at his desk. He might never see his desk again, but if that's the case, they can damn well send him the couple of photos he has on it. He keeps his mind in the present as he's escorted, memorizing the path out of the building he worked at for two years. To perhaps the last law enforcement job he'll ever have. He can't say whether Hotchner's investigation will come to anything conclusive, much less conclusive enough to actually reprimand or charge him. It's still up in the air. But he knows the risk is there.

The day is bright and sunny, but the glare makes Castiel squint, and the heat makes his skin uncomfortable and tight.

He gets in his car and drives, his mind blank for nearly fifteen minutes before he can't hold it back any longer and has to pull over to the side of the road. He doesn't put his emergency blinkers on. Just sits there.

Mistake after mistake. Castiel knew from the moment he escaped Dean that he would make mistakes, because in the course of lying, in the course of breaking the law, it's something every criminal does. No person, even someone knowingly breaking the law, can predict every circumstance and see around every corner. Whether that mistake is fatal varies. Castiel's had countless cases where he found that crack, and it lead to nothing. And many more where it did. Law enforcement is trained to look for those little mistakes, those little oversights that add up to evidence, to a break in the case. Hotchner found his break in the case when Castiel chose to lie to the SWAT leader in that bloody cafeteria.

He didn't do it to protect Dean. He did it to make sure the leader of a huge nest of vampires died.

But the fatal piece, the really fatal piece, was every time Castiel took the risk of meeting Dean. Of holding Dean in his arms. Of hugging him, of talking to him, of spending time with him. Funny how much of that recitation is about physical contact. If they hadn't caught him meeting Dean, if it had just been the lie about where Dean went, would that have been enough to save him? He's not sure. Maybe it doesn't matter, because what's done is done. But he can't help going over it in his head. Dean. His job. The lies.

Does he regret it? Would he change it? Either part?

He doesn't know. He just doesn't fucking know.

Castiel stares at his hands, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white.

He screams, visceral and primal, and then screams once more, hitting the steering wheel with a closed fist again and again.

* * *

Twitchy with restless energy and a simmering anger, Morgan's knock on Hotchner's office door isn't exactly quiet.

Hotchner looks up. "Close the door behind you."

Morgan manages not to slam it. He stands instead of sitting, and says, "Don't do this."

Hotchner searches Morgan's face for a few moments. If he thinks something in particular about Morgan's anger, he doesn't show it. "You were the one who first came to me with concerns. You may not have foreseen this, but –"

Morgan puts his hands on Hotchner's desk and leans forward. "Hotch, if you do this, we'll lose him."

Hotchner leans back, glancing at the chairs in front of his desk. The hint is enough; Morgan sits. Hotchner tilts his head slightly, a slight curiosity on his face. Morgan knows he's ac ting out of character, but he can't help himself. "You'll have to explain what you mean by that."

That's more difficult to answer. Morgan has a perspective that Hotchner simply cannot have. Morgan sees the whole. Castiel has been acting dangerously, yes, but only with regards to himself, not his work. It would even be fair to say that Castiel is a better agent now than he's ever been. But ever since Dean escaped from prison, Castiel's been taking risks that could lead him to losing his job – and Castiel was always extremely serious about his work. It wasn't a surprise when Castiel listed his brother and his job as his primary reasons for escaping from Dean. That Castiel, despite that, would continue to meet with Dean proves that Castiel never did fully disconnect from Dean on an emotional basis.

Only two things hold Castiel to a sane world, a world without Dean – a safe world. Losing one will be devastating to Castiel's mental stability, and any desire he has to stay away from Dean. Morgan desperately wants to avoid that.

"I know he's been acting oddly," Morgan begins slowly. "And I know he's kept things from us about his captivity. But he has he ever been anything but professional on the job?"

"He lied to the SWAT team, and that resulted in Dean Winchester's escape. I can't ignore the deaths of dozens of people, criminals or not."

"He was hit with the butt of a gun," Morgan points out. "And that's one thing on the job. Just one. Doesn't he get the benefit of the doubt? He's our colleague, and has always been dependable."

"I don't mind you playing devil's advocate, Morgan, but what did you mean by 'we'll lose him'?"

Morgan sighs and collapses into a chair, rubbing his eyes. "He already feels isolated, probably by those things about his captivity he won't tell us. It's not something he's shared with anyone else, but emotionally, Castiel still needs support. Losing work, even temporarily, won't be good for him. He needs that normality."

"But I can't act based on Castiel's needs, not in this scenario. I have to put our cases first. If Castiel needs more help, if he can't do this job –"

"I didn't say that," Morgan interrupts. "He's our friend, this is one isolated incident, isn't that enough?"

Hotchner pauses. "I don't trust him out in the field. Not if Dean Winchester is active."

Morgan grimaces. Perhaps he should tell Dean that, and get him to turn himself in again. "Then put him on desk duty."

"I've been looking at his computer history," Hotchner says calmly. "He's been conducting searches and requesting files that he has no reason to look at. Can you explain that?"

Not out loud. "No, I can't."

"Then I don't see any other way to move forward. You were right when you said he was hiding something, but now I think that that secret is a dangerous one. Something happened between him and Winchester that he's never told us. And I know this upsets you, but you were the one that saw this coming. What's changed?"

That hits Morgan in the gut. Just like Hotchner is now, Morgan was doing his best based on the information he had, or rather the lack of it, but if Morgan had waited, Castiel wouldn't be in this position. Morgan could go back on everything he said before now, but he's not sure it would do much good, and it would definitely damage Hotchner's opinion of Morgan's trustworthiness when it comes to Castiel. Or perhaps more accurately, his honesty. Castiel is Morgan's friend, and yet Morgan went to Hotchner anyway, because he believed it was the right thing to do.

That's all Hotchner is doing.

"I never wanted it to go this far," Morgan says finally.

"Neither did I. But there's only so much we can do while Castiel denies wrongdoing. I have to investigate."

It kills him to do it, but Morgan nods. Castiel was the one who told Morgan not to fight on his behalf, that Morgan needed to both stay a trusted confidant and keep his job. "I know. I'm not blaming you for this." That much is true.

"Talk to him," Hotchner advises. "He's been the closest to you since his return."

"I will," Morgan promises.

But he has no idea what he'll say.

* * *

Castiel stares at the numbers that constitute his banking account.

Between his checking and his IRA, he could get his hands on nearly forty thousand dollars, if he was to cash out all at once. Well, less than that, since he would be penalized for taking out the IRA money. Not to mention just doing that would be as good as a signed confession in Hotchner's mind, even if legally speaking it would just be circumstantial. Castiel could prepare to flee, but if he was caught preparing when it wasn't really necessary, he would ruin his career.

His lawyer advised Castiel to consider his suspension as a vacation, stay put and don't worry.

Of course, his lawyer is going on the assumption – which he specifically asked Castiel about – that Castiel didn't do the things he's accused of doing.

The numbers start to blur.

Castiel gets up and starts pacing, from the living room and through the kitchen back to the living room again. He doesn't look at the empty pot on top of the fridge once. He doesn't let himself.

Thump thump. Footstep after footstep. Castiel's heels hurt, and he's getting a tension headache from gritting his teeth.

He's at a crossroads, and he knows it. His job or –

No. Stop.

Go through the variables. Determine the appropriate course of action based on logic. Don't let the anger loose. Don't let the panic loose.

There's a number of possibilities to consider. Staying put and waiting for the investigation to go forward could result in more than the loss of Castiel's job. He doesn't think that Hotchner would recommend pressing charges, even in the worst case scenario where Castiel gets caught aiding Dean in some way. But whether to prosecute isn't ultimately a decision that Hotchner makes; the prosecutor makes that call.

Strictly speaking, though, he doesn't need the money. It would be nice, but Dean gets by –

Castiel stalks over to the laptop and closes it, hard. His eyes sting, and he closes eyes to the sight of his kitchen table. To the empty pot on top of his fridge. His body quivers.

He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to lose his job, and potentially even his brother. He took the actions that led to this situation knowing the risks, but facing it is overwhelming.

He's grieving the possibilities, but at the same time, he's furious that he's in this position in the first place. But the anger is without direction, without a focus. Perhaps because there's no one to blame but himself.

This time when his throat tightens and his eyes become wet, he gives in, back to his fridge, sliding down until his ass meets the cold floor.

Five minutes later, there's a knock at the door. Castiel hastily wipes his eyes, checks his reflection in the kitchen window – shit, he looks like he's been crying – and then reluctantly goes to answer the door. It's Morgan, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly agitated. Castiel sighs, leaning his forehead against the door for a long moment before he raises his head and turns the lock.

"Hey, Morgan. How's the baby?" Castiel asks with all the aplomb he can muster.

"Crying with colic, but I think he's still doing better than you," Morgan says wryly, giving Castiel a pained smile.

Castiel's amusement is genuine. "I can understand that. Come in." He steps aside. "I take it you've heard, then?"

"As soon as it happened," Morgan says. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. Maybe I could have prevented this."

Castiel shakes his head and collapses on the couch. "I doubt it. I made mistakes, Morgan, and I took risks that I knew could result in this. And I did it willingly." He smiles, just for a second. All he can manage, but he wants to at least seem optimistic, even if he's not feeling it. Morgan probably feels guilty enough. "Our colleagues are too smart, Morgan. It only took a small mistake for this to snowball."

"I know you told me that you would take all the risk –"

"No, Morgan."

Morgan closes his mouth, clearly frustrated.

"Don't interfere. It wouldn't help and it would place you in a precarious situation." Castiel lifts one shoulder. "The investigation is too far gone to stop. You know that."

Morgan's jaw clenches. "Then what will they find?"

"What will they find? I don't know. What _can_ they find? Me meeting Dean. Some strange phone calls in this area that can't be traced, just like you found. The files I searched for and requested are strange, and maybe would result in a reprimand, but the most dangerous thing is seeing Dean. It's not too far of a leap to connect my odd searches with Dean and conclude that I was handing him information. I don't think they could prove it because of the precautions I took, but the circumstantial evidence would be enough to end my career."

Morgan searches Castiel's face. "You look calm. Too calm."

Castiel laughs without humor. "I'm not. I'm freaking out."

"Are you thinking of running?" Morgan's face is purposefully blank, concealing all judgment. "In case they can press criminal charges?"

Castiel hesitates, not able to meet Morgan's eyes anymore. "I've considered it."

"To Dean?"

That's a good question. "I don't know."

"Then you're in denial."

Castiel looks up at Morgan, huffing out an irritated breath. "I'm still mentally scrambling, Morgan."

Morgan leans forward. "Then consider this: if you run, you lose everything. It will be taken as an admission of guilt. If you stay, even if you lose your job, you keep your brother, and you keep your freedom. I know Hotch would help you if you confessed to something, even if it wasn't the truth or the whole truth. He wants to help you, Castiel."

"Confess to what?"

"To limited contact with Dean. Not the rest of it. You turn him in."

Castiel blinks. "You want me to put him back in prison?"

"Would he stay, if you asked him to?"

Possibly. Probably. As long as Castiel didn't leave him alone. If Castiel did that and then cut off all contact, Dean would most likely commit suicide and render the prison issue moot. And that's what Castiel would have to do, in that situation - turn Dean in, and then abandon him entirely. It's not like they could use Anna as a courier for messages, not realistically. And Dean can't survive another separation, or more accurately another rejection. Castiel might not owe Dean anything, but he loves Dean.

He loves Dean.

He hasn't thought much about that in the past day and a half. Hasn't let himself. He's been so careful to compartmentalize his relationship with Dean separately from his work. Even during the raid, he focused on the case and the hunt before his worry for Dean's safety. But he does love Dean, even if he shouldn't, even if that love has likely ruined his normal life. But at the same time, he told Dean that he would prove that Castiel loved him. And what has he done? Thought about himself, mostly. The cascade of events in Castiel's personal life have taken over his mental focus.

Turning Dean into the police would prove the exact opposite of Castiel's feelings, even if Dean understood and agreed with the reasoning of Castiel's attempt to save himself.

Save himself at the cost of Dean's life. The thought makes him want to vomit. He spent over a year unable to kill Dean even for his freedom.

That seems to be true now, too.

"I love him, Morgan." He says it helplessly, because that's how he feels: helpless.

"Is that why you let him go?" Morgan asks. "At the vamp compound?"

Castiel shakes his head. "He was right on the leader's tail. And he got her, Morgan. I don't know if they told you that the people Dean's accused of killing are suspected of also being vampire cultists."

Morgan sighs. "So you let him go so he could end this hunt?"

Castiel nods.

"Fuck." Morgan leans back and rubs his eyes, looking suddenly exhausted.

A bit of humor escapes Castiel in the form of a smile, faint. "That's what I've been thinking for the past twenty four hours."

Morgan rubs the back of his neck. "So that's a no on turning Dean in."

"And you can't either."

Morgan frowns at him. "I wasn't planning to." He sighs and then admits heavily, "Though it occurred to me to get him to do it."

"Don't," Castiel says sharply. "It wouldn't help me any, and I don't want that."

Instead of arguing, Morgan reaches into his pocket and takes out a flash drive. He hands it over to Castiel, who takes it cautiously.

"What's this?"

"Dean's confession."

Castiel blinks. "His confession? From when he turned himself in?"

Morgan nods.

"Why are you giving me this?"

"To see if that no can become a yes," Morgan says, referring to Castiel turning Dean in, confessing to something minor to hide the major. "So you remember exactly what he did. In his own words."

Castiel's thumb rubs the blank surface of the drive. Does Morgan realize that Dean already confessed to Castiel? Months and months of confessions, torn out as he realized what he'd done.

"He's going to kill you."

Castiel's shoulders tense up and he realizes he's gritting his teeth again. He purposefully relaxes. He knows what Morgan means, and he's not talking about murder. Hunting, probably. Or being hunted. He chooses to play dumb. "He won't hurt me."

"He won't intend to, but he will."

Castiel looks away. The thought makes him want to squirm, and he knows it's because Morgan is right. So far things have gone well, but inevitably there will be a day where it won't. "We'll hurt each other, but we'll get through it."

"Until a monster takes you out? Or him? What then?"

"You keep going until you don't," Castiel says, and it's not a Novak thing to say – it's a Winchester thing to say. The reality they lived. The reality Dean lived for two years, or even much longer, until he met Castiel. He knows Dean meant it when he said Castiel leaving again would break him. If Dean goes first, Castiel will live on. The opposite isn't true. And abandonment isn't in Castiel's nature.

And who is to say that one day a monster wouldn't take Castiel out as an FBI agent? Human and inhuman. And as long as Castiel continues to hunt, however carefully he may do it, he runs the risk of being caught doing something unexplainable at best, criminal at worst. Perhaps this was always going to come to be, Castiel under suspicion because of the supernatural.

"If you keep in contact with him, someday he'll be the reason you die." Morgan's stare is steady. "I don't want that. Neither does your brother."

Castiel winces. That's a low blow.

"Have you thought about Balthazar?"

He's desperately been trying not to. Balthazar still doesn't know. "Morgan, just – please stop. I have enough on my plate without you adding more problems."

"Then promise me that before you do anything life changing, you talk to me first."

Castiel doesn't have to think about it. "All right."

Morgan exhales. Oddly enough, he looks defeated, despite Castiel's agreement. "Good. I have to head home, Savannah is expecting me, but let me know if you need someone to talk to, okay?"

"I will."

* * *

It takes Castiel two days to make another burner cell. He keeps it in a bus locker two cities over. It sits there, unused, while Castiel has the first of his interviews with the internal investigators who have his case.

Castiel's a profiler. He analyzes what they say and don't say.

On day four of his suspension, he walks to a nearby park and lays it all out in his head. He's able to gather a number of things from the questions they asked: they know for a fact he's seen and spoken to Dean since Dean's escape. They know that Castiel has disappeared on profiling cases for a few hours at a time, and are investigating his locations during those times. They don't know the meaning of Castiel's search history, or understand the relationship between the files. They don't know that Castiel was present at the ranch house; they apparently haven't put his vacation together with that, though the vacation itself is being investigated. They have been unable to connect Castiel's search history with Dean.

But there's one thing they know – that all those events are connected, even if they can't yet put it together.

Castiel's life hinges on two investigators' ability to think not just critically, but imaginatively. Really, Castiel's only hope is that they are as confused by Castiel's behavior as the BAU was by Dean's.

He doesn't call Balthazar. Or Morgan. Or Dean. He waits.

On the seventh day of his suspension, at three in the morning, Castiel texts Morgan once and then puts his FBI cell into his nightstand. He also leaves his wallet, save for his ID, which he puts in a hidden pocket. Cash goes into another pocket. He drops off Aditi with the neighbor, locks his apartment, and then goes outside. He slides on gloves. He walks a mile before he approaches a car from the nineties. He uses a piece of long metal to wedge the door open, then another thin piece of metal to unlock the car. Getting it started is even easier. He jams a smooth instrument into the ignition, and like he suspected, the car is so old that the grooves are worn and any key will do.

The engine hums.

Castiel drives nearly a hundred miles before abandoning the car at a gas station. He leaves a fingerprint-less note of apology, along with an instruction to alert the police to the car. He takes the bus to another town, riding silently for two hours with the sun rising.

He repeats this three more times, careful to leave the car in a completely different jurisdiction every single time and interrupting the line of stolen cars with bus rides. Until the last one.

There's a Biggersons' near the bus stop. The sun is high in the sky now, and Castiel's eyes are gritty with lack of sleep. He orders a large coffee and sits at the window.

Thirty minutes later, a '67 Chevy Impala drives up.

Castiel doesn't wait for a honk, or for Dean to come out and get him. Going off grid in the middle of an investigation isn't a wise decision, and he knows that, but he's making it anyway, and he's not going to hesitate now. He gets up, drops the coffee cup in the trash, and goes out to meet Dean.

The car gleams in the bright sunlight. Dean must have detailed it recently. Castiel has only ridden in this car a handful of times, and none willingly up to this point. He finds himself pausing for a second, hand on the car door, then opens it up and slides in. He looks to his left.

Dean. His dark blond hair is a bit messy, like he just got out of bed, but probably he's been driving for hours; Castiel didn't give him a lot of warning. His green eyes are bright and curious, though. Happy, too, to see Castiel. He gives Castiel a tentative smile, which fades when Castiel doesn't return it.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks, concern and panic flashing across his face before he controls it.

"Not here. Drive."

Dean pulls out of the parking lot. "I, uh, did what you asked. Three days, somewhere totally remote. It's a cabin and the guy is leaving the key, so no one will even see us."

Castiel nods silently, looking out the passenger window.

Dean looks at their surroundings and then starts driving as if to lose any tails. Then he does what he normally does when Castiel is nonresponsive. He chatters. "So, we got a lot of the remaining nests. At this point the nests are pretty much just dissolving – random, young and inexperienced vamps going their separate ways. The guys I was hunting with have alerted the rest of the hunting community – 'cause, you know, I'm not totally welcome in those circles – and I expect in a year or two we'll be back down to normal vamp numbers." He pauses. "You know, random shit every once in a while, instead of mass killings."

A bit of tension eases out of Castiel at the news.

Dean seems to sense it. "Judging from their kill numbers beforehand, in the two and a half years we think they operated, we saved a few thousand lives. Maybe more, depending on how long it would've taken to track them down individually. Not bad, huh?"

Castiel sighs deeply and leans his head back against the seat. He has to slump to do it, since the bench seat doesn't have a proper headrest like modern cars.

"You know, it's actually one of the longest hunts I've ever been on? I mean, obviously not the biggest – apocalypse and all that wins that one." Dean tilts his head, considering. "Though I guess hunting my mom's killer, that kind of counts, right? Twenty four years?" Dean taps the steering wheel. "Anyway, I took on a kelpie in Minnesota. I know, sounds weird, right? Interesting story how it got there, too."

Castiel is certain Dean is about to go into the full story and relaxes. He's right.

The full tale takes nearly an hour, because Dean spares no detail. His words blend with the white noise of the road, and Castiel drifts in and out of the story. Dean's not usually the type to go into that much exposition, and Castiel knows he's doing it only because Castiel isn't talking, and Dean is worried. How many times did Dean do this with him when Castiel was his captive? Probably at least a hundred times. Certainly dozens. The rhythm of it is soothing in its familiarity. Perhaps it shouldn't be, because he's more or less referencing one of the ways Dean placated him as a prisoner, but that thought has a short life. Castiel simply listens.

Freeways lead to highways, which lead to two lane roads, and then one. Trees grow closer to the road, closing in on them as they travel. Closer and closer, until the road disappears into shade and branches wave over them as the Impala hums along. It's getting colder, and since most of the trees are deciduous, there's bits of yellow and orange leaves decorating the deep green. Every once in a while, Castiel will catch a flash of red. Red, like blood. The case. Dean. Castiel lets Dean's voice become a buzz, until it finally drops off.

It's startling when Dean speaks again, and Castiel jumps. "About a mile away," he says, as he turns onto a single lane road that's barely paved, and has no lines on it. He bites his lip as he looks at Castiel, making as if to say more, and then visibly stopping himself. His eyes are a similar green to most of the trees around them, Castiel notes absently.

It takes Castiel a bit of brain power to realize what Dean just said. He blinks and sits up. "All right."

Dean gives Castiel an uncertain smile, but says nothing until they pull into the cabin's driveway.

The cabin is a bit more than it sounds like. It looks pretty typical in terms of building materials – big logs, rough-hewn wood, and a thick, sturdy door – but there the resemblance ends. It has a huge, nice patio with a swing shifting slightly in the breeze. It's one story, but by no means one room – Castiel would guess it has at least three, judging from the size. The front window is huge, though the curtains are drawn, so they can't see in.

To say it's different from Dean's usual haunts is an understatement.

"I wanted to get you something nice, for once," Dean says uncertainly. "It's got a Jacuzzi tub and everything."

Castiel's throat tightens. "Thank you, Dean."

That stiffens Dean's spine, for whatever reason. "What's going on, Cas?"

Dread and fear makes Castiel's stomach a dead weight. He's not even quite sure what he's afraid of – maybe the uncertainty of his future, and by extension his and Dean's. His body is tense, and his muscles ache from keeping that tension for days. He wavers between relaxing and winding up tighter, not knowing how this will go. For himself, at least. He's fairly certain he knows how Dean will react. Castiel jerks his head at the cabin. "Let's go in, and I'll explain."

Dean nods slowly. He gets out of the car, grabs a duffel and dives into his right pocket for a key. He waits for Castiel to follow him up the porch, but doesn't touch him. He unlocks the cabin and gestures to Castiel to go in first.

Castiel sees a couch and zeros in on it, legs feeling like heavy stone. He sits. He closes his eyes. The rest of the room is a blank space in his mind; he didn't even see it. "Dean."

"Yeah, Cas?"

For a week, Castiel has let an outer shell of numbness rule. In a distant part of his mind, he's rapidly vacillated between thinking he's got a shot at keeping his life and being convinced it's over. Hope and hopelessness. Two days ago, Morgan reported that the internal FBI investigators had traveled to Kentucky. He overheard them asking Hotchner about his 'vacation.'

He opens his eyes to the reality he doesn't want to face.

There's a cheery figurine of an angel sitting on the mantel above the fireplace. Castiel rises to his feet and, in one smooth motion, picks it up and throws it at the wall. It shatters into a dozen pieces. Good. That's what Castiel feels like right now.

"Shit! Cas!"

Dean grabs his arm. Castiel swings without thinking, because fury is meeting defeat, and his fist clips Dean's face. Dean dodged, of course, just not quite in time. It does force Dean to let Castiel go, for brief second, before he comes in again. Using his fists doesn't even feel like a conscious decision for Castiel. He strikes, mind blank. Dean evades.

Green eyes swing into view, matched with a pale face. "Cas." Dean struggles to avoid the next blow while trying to contain Castiel, but Castiel's attacks are getting wilder as his composure fully crumples. In a matter of moments, Dean gets a good grip on him. Firm. Castiel has half a flashback, remembering all the times Dean did this in the bunker, Castiel losing his mind because of Dean. This time, he can't really blame Dean. Not properly, not fairly.

His life is swirling into a dark hole, the future too black to see.

Castiel's heart is squeezing in his chest like his choices are a vice, slowly strangling the life out of him. His vision is blurry. He's losing his mind. His life. He wants to scream, but instead he just hyperventilates. Arms circle him, hold him in like he's going to explode, and maybe he is, and then there's hot breath in his ear and the words, "It's okay, it's okay. Whatever happened, we'll fix it, okay?"

Dean seems to waver back into existence. Castiel pants into his shoulder, his panic fading as he notes each tense muscle and purposefully relaxes it. He can smell blood. He loosens his fists, looking at his knuckles; they're bloody, and it's not just his.

Castiel jerks back so he can look at Dean's face.

Dean has red staining his lower lip and a small cut on his cheekbone, but there's no indication on his face that he cares about that. He's focused on Castiel instead, that same loving concern he'd had in the bunker, except now there's a hesitancy there, some kind of desire not to intrude.

Castiel brushes Dean's lower lip with his thumb, a stroke of red. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Instantly dismissive. "Just tell me what's wrong."

"I've been suspended from the FBI. And I think they suspect I was at the ranch house." Castiel wants to say more, but his throat closes, and he gives up. That's enough, isn't it?

Dean's eyes widen. "Oh, Cas. Shit." He blinks rapidly and swallows, looking away for just a second like he's overwhelmed, before facing Castiel head on. Determined. "I'll – I'll figure out what to do, okay? We can turn this, shift the blame for everything onto me, like it should be. And I'll erase, shit, I don't know, tell me everything and I'll fix it, Cas."

"You can't." He slumps into Dean's hold. He's not lying to protect Dean; if they know, or suspect, anything about Kentucky, then there is literally nothing Dean can do, no confession he can make that will save Castiel's life or career.

"This is my fault, I can fix it –"

"You can't," Castiel repeats. "I know how these investigations work." Castiel's mind starts locking into place as he struggles to find the words to explain. "It started with me, not you. Even just for due diligence, they have to keep investigating all the threads that started with me – my odd behavior with regards to any kind of perceived supernatural element, Morgan's suspicions that he reported to Hotchner, my searches through the FBI database, the video –"

"What video?" Dean demands, hands tightening on Castiel's shoulders.

"The one of me lying to the SWAT team, telling them you went the opposite way."

Dean is taken aback for a second, then says, "Cas, you didn't have to do that."

"Much as I care for you, it wasn't for you – you were hunting the leader of that entire vampire organization. I couldn't let that fail."

Dean closes his eyes. He breathes in and out, six times because Castiel counts, and then opens them to look at Castiel without the frantic desire to reassure, instead calm certainty. "This is still my fault," he begins. "Meeting me is part of this whole thing, isn't it? And I was the one who told you about the supernatural, just because I wanted something from you, and bringing someone into this life for a reason like that isn't fair."

Castiel meets Dean's gaze. Castiel has never blamed Dean for revealing the supernatural world to him. His life has always been one of not looking away from the reality of the world – knowing the whole of it made him more effective in stopping evil, and that was all that mattered. He wouldn't have joined law enforcement if he couldn't cope with that. But now that he's faced with losing nearly everything because of it, there's a thread of anger in him. Why him? Why does he have to be the one to suffer through this? He was doing the right thing, at least in hunting, and helping Dean on a hunt, once and then twice, at the risk of his career and at the risk of innocent lives.

And yet.

Hasn't that been Dean's entire life? Manipulated before he was even born – born to be manipulated, in fact – to end the world, as a vessel of an archangel? Why did he and Sam have to be the ones to suffer so much? To have to fight in a world that doesn't even know two brothers saved it?

Can Castiel really judge him for frantically grasping what little Dean had? Can he blame Dean for merely revealing what Castiel hadn't known?

And if Dean is to blame, isn't Castiel to blame for Morgan?

"No, it's not," Castiel says finally. "But that doesn't change anything, does it?" He rests his head against Dean's shoulder.

Dean's tense for a second, then it fades and his body yields to Castiel.

They stay that way for an amount of time. Castiel doesn't keep track.

Dean eventually gets Castiel to his feet and guides him to the master bedroom. He takes off Castiel's shoes and socks, while Castiel looks on, dimly curious. Dean strokes the arch of Castiel's foot as he goes, then the curve of Castiel's elbow, and finally the jut of Castiel's hipbone. He doesn't ask permission, but he watches Castiel like a hawk, waiting for a sign of discomfort. He receives none. Dean smiles, then quickly rises to his feet and disappears into the bathroom, until the sound of running water filters out. Dean returns, quickly strips out of his own shoes and jeans, economical in his motions. He leaves his t-shirt and boxers on. Then he does the same for Castiel, moving forward through every act of compliance Castiel offers.

Their eyes meet from time to time, and Castiel wonders what Dean sees, to make him sigh like that.

It's an interesting switch of positions. Castiel comforted Dean like this, skin to skin, after Kentucky, with Dean unresisting.

Dean leaves once to check the water, then returns to Castiel. He eyes him for a long moment, then very carefully and slowly urges Castiel to his feet by taking both of Castiel's hands and applying gentle pressure, a gentle pull. Dean hugs him, light, light almost like that first time after they saw each other after Dean's escape from prison. "Let me?" Dean asks.

It feels like Dean is asking more than simply to bathe Castiel.

They've danced around physical contact, the two of them. Hands touching. Hugs. Castiel didn't ask when he stripped Dean down after the massacre at the ranch house and pulled Dean to him, but there's a different dynamic when Castiel is the one reaching out. Dean will hardly ever do it himself, afraid of going too far, like he did in the bunker. Like he did the first time, for a long time. So when Castiel looks up at him in this moment, he's surprised to see a look of surety on Dean's face. Not confidence, less boisterous than that.

Castiel takes Dean's hand, the tips of his fingers tracing along Dean's gun calluses first.

The bathroom has two skylights, one directly over the large bath that's set against the far wall – definitely sized for two people, not one. The tub is deep, and there's a set of stairs leading up to it. Baby blue tile gleams. Since the light is natural, it's soft instead of glaring.

"Nice and hot, just how you like it," Dean promises.

Castiel goes up the two steps, and then climbs in, shivering when the intense heat hits his skin. He sinks down to his chest almost immediately, and then finds a wall to lean against, the wire-tightness of his muscles loosening almost without him intending them to.

Dean doesn't follow. He kneels in front of the tub, which comes up nearly to his shoulders, and waits for Castiel to look at him, a serious look on his face instead of the fond one Castiel expects. "Just tell me what you need me to do," he says, and Castiel knows he's not talking about the bath. He still means to sacrifice himself, somehow.

"Do you still think I don't love you?" Castiel asks, hugging his arms around himself. Dean may want to talk about Castiel's splintering life, but Castiel doesn't.

"You still ask that, after what I've brought your life to?"

Castiel moves forward on his knees in the water, until he's close to Dean again. He rests his hand on the side of Dean's face, then cups his jaw. "Yes."

Dean leans into it, eyes sad. "I don't know if you can. You once told me I'd broken you. After that, how can anything between us be real?"

Castiel considers that. Morgan has made that same argument – that Castiel is too damaged to make this choice fully out of free will. That he is too scarred, and falls into old patterns worn smooth by Dean's actions, wearing on Castiel's mind for eighteen months. "I'm not sure it matters." A droplet of water falls from Castiel's hand down Dean's neck. Castiel follows it with his eyes. When he looks up, Dean looks damn near heartbroken. "Dean. What I mean is, if my choices are to be respected, does it really matter if my scars influence them? Must I spend my life making the decisions I should make, instead of what I want, just because I broke? How is that fair to me?"

"So if you're crazy, why not let you be happy in your crazy?"

"If you like," Castiel says easily, not bothered by Dean's sharp use of the word crazy.

Dean huffs out a breath, probably displeased he didn't get the reaction he wanted. His fingers are white against the rim of the tub. Castiel thinks that half of Dean wants to do anything that Castiel wants, and the other half wants to do what seems right, even if it conflicts with the former. Not exactly an easy position to be in.

Castiel would know.

He leans in, shifting his knees in the water to he can get close, and kisses Dean. Slow and light.

Warm hands curl around his neck, wet fingers running up his nape into his dry hair as Dean responds, lips soft. Castiel is careful, since he split Dean's lip, but Dean doesn't flinch. Something loosens in Castiel's chest, an unnamed fear put to rest. Dean still wants him. Maybe, in an odd way, letting Castiel kiss him is respecting him, even if most would call it something else entirely. But Dean keeps the pressure there, their touches always a line headed towards a specific goal, but not this time.

Just gentle kisses.

Castiel drops his head down to Dean's shoulders, then slides his hands down his arms. Then he lets go and braces his hands on the tub's rim and heaves himself up.

And he tries to pull Dean in, hands catching at the band of Dean's boxers.

Dean resists, instead kissing Castiel again. "I want you," Dean says hastily. "But God, Cas, you just potentially lost all kinds of crap, I don't think you're in the right mindset to be doing this, much less with me."

Castiel wants comfort. The kind he used to have, the kind he loved and he hated when he had a cuff on his ankle. Castiel wanted to say yes to Dean for so long, to truly be Dean's lover in every sense – not just physically, but mentally – to give himself over in entirety, but he never could, not with the element of force underlying everything. He wanted Dean to let him go, so he could stay.

He thinks he could, now.

Dean is an anchor, a shelter against the storm of everything else. He always has been, even when he was the one whipping the storm into a frenzy. Now that Dean's gentled and become the safe place Castiel wanted him to be, Castiel can give into the need he feels.

"Everything else – hasn't changed this. Not really. And if I walked out right now, you'd let me," Castiel says.

"Yeah," Dean confirms uncertainly.

"Dean, that's all I've ever wanted from you. And now that I have it, I want this." Castiel smiles, a bit of pain behind it because he's not sure Dean will say yes, even with those words.

Dean swallows, his eyes wet. He looks away for a moment, and a tear slips down his cheek. He swipes it away, half angrily. "But what if you don't, after?"

"I won't."

Dean licks his lips. "Do you … do you really love me?"

And this is the moment. Castiel can feel it. Dean is at a tipping point. If Castiel says yes, and backs out after, this is the moment that will have broken him.

So Castiel pulls back, physically and mentally, and watches Dean as he pours his mind over the pair of them again.

What he feels for Dean – is it love?

He feels need. The desire to be with Dean, to be part of his life in some way, is a strong one. It satisfies something unnamable in Castiel. Part of that want for closeness is sexual, part of it isn't. He certainly loves things about Dean – his drive to help people, his sense of humor and his some of his approach to life. The cheerfulness, the understanding that sometimes happiness is made, not received. He enjoys experiencing those parts of Dean. In a more intellectual sense, he admires Dean's history, the things he's accomplished. But most of his need is more intense than that.

The way he makes Castiel feel. Wanted beyond measure. Beautiful. Arousing. But Dean also makes Castiel feel like Dean admires his experience, too. His job at the FBI, his work, his mind. Dean wanted Castiel to hunt with him, foremost. Despite his frantic desire to protect Castiel during the vampire hunt, he also respected Castiel's skills. And used them. He makes Castiel feel needed.

Which is true. Dean does need Castiel.

Dean needs Castiel like he needs breathing. It's elemental to his nature, now. Many things broke Dean's ability to feel love in a normal way, starting with the fire when he was four, and ending with Sam's death. Dean lost everything that ever mattered. To be given another person that mattered meant that all of his focus, all of his emotions, all of his need, were centered on that person. Dean was never meant to be alone. He was a pack animal, in every sense of the word, and as a lone wolf he would wither and die.

Dean breathes for him now, staring at him. Sunlight reflects off the water, little lines of light wavering across Dean's skin. Waiting.

But can Castiel call need love? What is romantic love? More than need.

Selfless caring, selfless actions.

Dean turning himself in. Castiel refusing to get Dean caught, for the risk it put to his life. Again and again during his captivity, Castiel failed to take opportunities to escape if they entailed serious risk to Dean's life.

Maybe that's it. Romantic love, eros, is need tempered by selflessness.

"Cas?" Dean sounds afraid.

Castiel needs Dean, just as Dean needs him. But he wants more than that – he wants to give, too. He wants to make Dean happy. He wants Dean to smile, to thrive, to heal wounds. And Dean wants Castiel to be free.

"Yes," Castiel says simply. For months, he has torn himself apart over this, doubting and confident by turns, but it all seems to click now, all the months he spent in captivity and all the healing he did after. Dean hurt him badly, his own love unhealthy, lacking the selfless portion that is needed to keep it sane. But Dean is better than he was, and so is Castiel. So he says, "I do."

Dean wavers. Does he believe Castiel, or believe the rest of the world?

When Dean remains at the precipice, Castiel says, "I once told you that I'd prove I love you by pieces." He swishes his hands under the water, feeling weirdly shy.

"Bagged and tagged?" Dean asks, half smirking, relaxing as Castiel lets him off the hook, at least for the moment.

Castiel smiles faintly. "My life has changed so much in the past few weeks, since we last saw each other."

Dean winces.

"If I hadn't met with you in secret, I'd probably be in less danger of losing my job," Castiel admits. But he doesn't stop, doesn't let Dean react. "But Dean, I don't regret it. I'm angry, I'm frustrated, but I don't regret you."

"You should."

"I don't."

"When I was your prisoner, everything had a weight," Castiel begins. "There were things I wanted to have, and to avoid, and they often contradicted each other. I wanted my freedom, but I didn't want to hurt you. I wanted my job, but I didn't want you in prison, or dead. But Dean – don't you see, I don't have to make that choice anymore? You let me go. Now I don't have to weigh you against the things I want. You're just what I want."

"What about your job? Cas, you love your work –"

"I do," Castiel interrupts. "And losing it hurts like hell, if I truly have lost it. I'll need you to get through that. But this was always a risk, and it was one inherent in hunting the supernatural, not in you. Yes, seeing you was a risk that came true, but …"

"Cas –"

Castiel lets it out in a rush. "I thought I could be a hunter and an FBI agent. I did. But I don't think I ever could, not really, and that's not your fault. If it wasn't this, it would have been another case down the line, another odd behavior, another lie."

Dean exhales. "You sound defeated."

Castiel shakes his head. "You said it yourself. We potentially saved thousands of lives. My career isn't much in the face of that. How can I regret saving those people, and you?" But that's the bigger picture. "After all of that, going through all of that, I still love you."

"And that's one piece, huh?"

"One piece," Castiel agrees, and takes Dean's hand. He pulls, again, for Dean to join him in the water.

Dean eyes him, then stands up, breaking Castiel's grip. But in the next moment he climbs in, settling in. They don't instantly fall into each other. Instead, Dean ducks down to his chin, and then under, surfacing a second later, completely wet. Castiel can see every curve and muscle of Dean's body under the wet t-shirt and boxers. This is the body – the person – he slept with for over a year. It's strange to see Dean in that context again. As fraught as their prior meetings have been with emotional tension, a give and a take, pure physicality has often taken a backseat. Sexual attraction was there, but always secondary.

Of course, it still is. That Castiel feels more at ease with his desire for physical closeness hasn't changed that.

"I guess I'm not sure how I see that's love," Dean finally says.

Castiel settles onto one of the two seats in the massive tub. "You said you weren't sure that evidence existed," he says. Dean is getting closer. That's progress. "Is that why you deny everything I've done as someone who only cares? Because you think what I feel is not provable?"

Dean swallows and looks away.

"You know, in all the relationships I've had, I've never had to stop and think about what love is. I had to, with you, because what we shared went deeper and darker than anything I ever experienced before." Castiel takes a moment to breathe, matching his breath to Dean's. "But Dean, I don't just care for you. Love – romantic love – is more than that. I need you. I want you."

"That sounds – scary."

"Sometimes, I think love is."

Dean searches Castiel's face. "I need you," he says finally. "I always have. But I want to do more than that, be more than that, and love you like – like I don't get anything."

"But I'll give it. I am giving it."

Dean looks away, gaze skimming the surface of the water. He's thinking about it, Castiel can tell. Putting Castiel's words into context and then analyzing them. Dean's not a natural intellectual thinker, he goes more on instinct by nature, but over the months that they spoke over the phone and then Dean's therapy in prison, Castiel knows he's learned that as valuable as instinct is, it's not the always the end solution. Dean learned for Castiel. And now he's using it, again, for Castiel.

Tentatively, "I want this. You."

"You can have it. Me." Castiel may have lost a great deal in the past week, but he hasn't lost this; he hasn't lost one of his great joys. That Dean is that, can be that, is an amazing thing, slowly gained, hard fought.

He and Dean have fought so hard to get here, to a point where Castiel is safe and Dean provides that safety. And in the bounds of that, love can finally flourish without being tainted.

Dean is still unsure. "This feels like a nightmare, where I'm about to be handed what I want and I lose it," he admits.

Castiel feels the tightness in his throat, lets it go. "I know it's hard to trust," and he doesn't say 'trust me' because it's more complicated than that. "If you can't, then I accept that. But I want you to know that you can."

That firms Dean's jaw. He looks like he's about to leap off a cliff, terrified and exhilarated. He nods, once, and licks a droplet of water from his lower lip. A sense of certainty seems to spread throughout him, manifesting in straight shoulders, a lean in, and an unflinching gaze. "Okay. I – I believe you, Cas." He softens. "I love you."

Relief is first, then joy. Then Castiel lunges forward, water splashing, and kisses Dean, hard and fast, mouth open. Castiel shifts to bite at Dean's neck, hand sliding through water across Dean's sides to his back, pulling him in. Castiel wants Dean, so very desperately. He hid it when they first reunited, from himself more than anyone. Castiel, in the beginning, wasn't sexually aroused by Dean. Not simply because of the situation, either, but the fact that Dean was male.

It took experience to make Castiel want Dean. And ever since, his reaction to Dean physically has always been so visceral. So overwhelming, not just sensually, but emotionally. Castiel cared for Dean before sex became important, and that feels true this second time around, though he has to admit that even that first meeting felt charged.

Whatever he's felt for Dean, it's never been indifferent.

"You want to – sex?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Castiel says.

Their legs meet awkwardly as they hit each other more than meet, and Dean huffs a laugh into Castiel's mouth, his hands trying to adjust Castiel's legs. The addition of water to sex is new – they shared a shower or two, but always took the physical activity to bed. And the bunker didn't have bathtubs. Flashbacks tingle at the edge of Castiel's mind, memories of touches that weren't so light, so sure, so wanted.

But Castiel chases away the shadows with thoughts of the present.

Castiel grabs clumsily at the hem of Dean's shirt, the head getting stuck for a second as he tries to pull it over Dean's head. Dean almost smacks his head against the tub rim. "Ow."

"Sorry," Castiel says with a wince. When Dean's upper half is revealed, Castiel takes a second to kiss at the tattoos he still hasn't asked about. He wonders what they do. He almost asks, but Dean rushes in again, hands everywhere.

Castiel shoos Dean's hands off, firmly moving Dean's body how he wants until Dean has opened up for him again, and Castiel is between his legs, pressing against him.

The wet band of Dean's underwear catches against Dean's wet skin as Castiel tries to pull it away. He resorts to shoving them down roughly while Dean pants into his mouth, moaning when his boxers reach his knees.

Castiel freezes. Instinct, memory and will war with each other.

Dean feels it and jerks away. "Cas?"

"Sorry, sorry, I just – need a moment." Castiel frowns at Dean's cock, his ability to see it clearly marred by the wavy water.

"We'll stop," Dean says, reassuring.

"I don't want to stop," Castiel says. "Do you?" He licks his lips, thinking. He spent a lot of time working on his reactions to Dean, changing them so he wouldn't have flashbacks. He can do this. "Let's try this again."

Dean looks like he's about to object, but doesn't. "Um, okay. If you're sure."

Castiel gives him a smile. They pull together again, kissing lightly, and then Castiel's knee slips in the water and he crashes into Dean's mouth painfully.

"Fuck!" Dean says, pulling off. His lip starts bleeding again.

"Shit, are you okay?" Castiel touches Dean's lip, and he winces. "Okay, kissing is out. Can, um, can I touch –"

"What if –" Dean says at the same time.

They both stop.

"Handjob?" Castiel offers.

"To you or me?"

Castiel hesitates. "You, first. If you don't mind?"

"I totally mind having an orgasm," Dean jokes.

Castiel smiles faintly, hands twitchy.

"Sorry. This feels really weird," Dean confesses. "Asking each other what to do."

Right. But necessary. There wasn't enough asking previously. It feels weird to keep checking in with his sexual partner – he certainly didn't do that with previous partners – but then, they have a history.

Castiel's hand closes around Dean's erection. Water makes for poor lubrication, so he doesn't stroke, really. Just touches and squeezes while Dean moans. The heft of Dean's cock is familiar, and he remembers all of Dean's sensitive spots, pressing at the base of Dean's cock, feeling Dean jump a little.

"Can I touch you?"

Castiel thinks about it, then shakes his head. He isn't sure how he would react to that, and a flashback is the last thing he wants right now. "No, not yet. You were always the aggressor in our relationship before, I think I need – I need to be in control."

"Okay, okay, I –"

Castiel doesn't really want Dean thinking right now. He flicks the tip of Dean's cock.

Dean moans, long eyelashes against his cheek.

Okay. Now things are going a bit more as Castiel wants.

Castiel moves his hand from the head to the base, mostly light touches followed by pressure. He watches as Dean bucks forward and then stops himself, and the sight of that is so arousing – and Castiel is hard, doesn't know for how long – that Castiel starts sucking kisses into Dean's neck, wanting more. Dean's hips move, his only concession to how badly he wants this, but the rest of him stays still, letting Castiel take what he wants.

With Castiel's mouth on Dean's neck, one hand on Dean's cock and the other stroking the soft skin behind his balls, Dean finally comes. As Castiel watches, Dean's back arches and his eyes close and his mouth opens, and Castiel gently kisses away the cry that leaves his lips, avoiding the cut. That almost feels like a metaphor.

Dean slumps, panting. His eyes slowly open, dazed, finding Castiel. Grateful.

Castiel reaches into his own wet boxers, the fabric determined to stick to his skin, and strokes himself, squeezing the head and then moving down. He feels intensely aroused, having Dean's eyes on him while he does this, while he thinks about Dean the way he has for months now, thought about sex while he masturbated. He never fantasized about Dean watching him, though, which makes this all the more intense, feel all the more real. And while Dean watches from less than a foot away, he comes.

Success. Not flashbacks, two orgasms. It feels like Castiel has been working towards this moment for two years. Since his escape.

Dean strokes Castiel's skin with his fingertips instead of kissing, in the aftermath, then murmurs, "Semen bath."

Castiel laughs, choked off. "We'll have to take another bath, then."

"There's a huge shower."

Castiel didn't even notice. He smiles.

Castiel's normal life may be teetering on the edge of destroying itself, but Castiel has this. And while it's not everything, it's not perfection, he knows he'd rather lose his job than Dean, and so –

He lets the regret go.

After, he and Dean curl up in the massive bed in the master bedroom. The light from the window is fading, leaving them in soft gray shadows. Castiel's head lies on Dean's chest, one leg swung over Dean's, and Dean's arm securely around Castiel's shoulders. They dry that way, the air cool and silent. Castiel focuses on the warm breath he feels against his nape and the slight jump of Dean's muscles when Castiel strokes a finger across his abdomen. Dean drags his nails across Castiel's back in retaliation, laughing when Castiel squirms.

There's a peace to this moment that Castiel wasn't sure either of them would ever have. Certainly not with each other.

Castiel's mind has drifted into a steady calm. Dean's not resting so easily, Castiel can tell. This battle is won, but the war isn't over. And perhaps it shouldn't be; perhaps struggling through is what they both need. Dean has a lot of reservations, still, but that's okay. They can work through them, together.

When Castiel wakes the next morning, bright sunlight driving into his eyes, Dean is there, staring at him. "What?" Castiel asks, squinting.

"Two days," Dean says, "and you go back to your apartment, the investigation, your brother. Everything. I'll be here for you, but I don't want to be your only anchor. So … do one thing for me?"

"What is it?" Castiel asks warily.

And Dean says simply, "Fight for your life."


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N** : Merry Christmas!

 **A/N2** : I am considering writing an extended author's notes chapter when the story is done - a 'how I did it/weird facts about the writing' if you will. If anyone has questions they'd like me to answer about the story, let me know!

 **Warnings (spoilers!)** : Violence and grossness on par with show. Possible dub-con, depending on your point of view.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

The smell of bacon wakes Castiel up.

Soft bed, unfamiliar sheets. Colder than he keeps his apartment. Where is he? Wait. Castiel blinks several times at the log ceiling, pierced with skylights with the sunlight aimed against the far wall. Early morning. In the cabin. With Dean.

With the candlestick as the murder weapon, Castiel thinks humorously.

He levers himself up, only remembering he's naked when the soft sheets skim past his body and pool around his waist. He throws off the blankets and looks down at himself. There's no semen left, not after the shower. Just plain skin, skin Dean has touched. He glides his fingertips past his ribs, down to his pelvis, thoughtful. They didn't have sex in the shower, just cleaned each other off. Intimate in its own way, and sexual, even if not the act itself. But it's weird – in hindsight, this morning, it feels different. Yes, he and Dean woke up briefly and Dean said those words – which he isn't going to think about, not right now – but that still felt like yesterday, like the heat of the moment, the pounding of emotion still guiding Castiel's actions.

He's cooled off since then.

Does he get dressed? Is being naked an invitation for more?

It wasn't necessarily in the past, even if Dean always visibly reacted, but the past is fucked up and an untrustworthy guide. But surely an invitation isn't a bad thing – he did initiate this with Dean, even if he's not interested in sex right this moment. Sex is … going to require planning. So many of his instinctually bad reactions he's mastered, but there isn't a way to master his triggers with regards to sex without actually having sex. There's a reason he didn't let Dean touch him.

And he doesn't want it to seem like he's putting on armor, the way he did before, the way he used clothes before when they shared a bed because of a deal instead of because they loved each other.

He is analyzing putting on clothes way too much.

Castiel snorts softly to himself. He pulls on a fresh pair of boxers, Dean's, and then heads towards where he vaguely remembers the kitchen being.

He hears the sizzle of bacon first, then rounds a corner and sees Dean. He's got a t-shirt on with Metallica's logo blazed across the front, probably to protect against splattering grease, but no pants or boxers, so Castiel gets a very good look at his bare butt. He has to repress laughing, because Dean looks ridiculous.

"Nice view," Castiel comments, smirking.

Dean jumps and turns, a smile on his face. "Hey. Making bacon and an omelet."

Castiel sidles over, contemplating smacking Dean's ass. He doesn't, though, just gets close, offers his mouth for a kiss.

After a moment of hesitation, Dean takes it. Light, quick and then gone.

"Good morning."

Dean grins at him. "Good morning." He scoops through cooking eggs, turning them over, and then puts the spatula down. He leans in and kisses Castiel more thoroughly, and Castiel returns the kiss, not urgent. Almost like they're both memorizing each other. Dean starts to thicken against Castiel's thigh, pressing warmly against his boxers.

"Eager?" Castiel murmurs into his mouth.

"Always," Dean replies. He withdraws. "Shit!" He starts poking the burning omelet, trying to get off the black parts while Castiel laughs.

"I thought you were a good cook," he says.

"You're very distracting," Dean objects.

"Says the man not wearing any pants. Or underwear."

"Nudity is a wonderful thing, Cas." He swivels his hips.

It's not exactly attractive. More hilarious. But it does cause Dean's cock and balls to sway, and Castiel can't help watching as Dean thickens. He finally raises his eyes, meeting Dean's. "Not right now," Castiel says, but without heat or anger, just matter-of-fact.

Dean nods and turns away. "You doing okay?" Losing most of the playfulness, concern taking its place.

Castiel nods, relieved at Dean's easy acceptance. Dean does – did – always push the moment he got somewhere, when it came to sex. "I think so, at least. But for now, I don't want to think about – about yesterday. The FBI. That whole mess. Okay?"

"Sure," Dean says immediately. "Whatever you need."

After that, Dean gets back to the omelet, leaving Castiel to sit at the kitchen table and wait. He taps his fingers on the wood, much darker than the kitchen table in the bunker. Déjà vu hits him very suddenly. How many mornings were like this in the bunker? Castiel waiting for Dean to make him breakfast, half naked? He shivers. When the shiver stops, his hands don't stop shaking. It takes him a moment to pinpoint why, and it's the feeling of going backwards. Castiel feels almost out of his body for a long second, but then he pulls himself back by noting the differences. Castiel couldn't reach most of the kitchen with the cuff on his ankle, certainly not close enough to give Dean a kiss while he cooked. The kitchen is different – it has a large bay window looking out to the forest, the road not in sight. No blank concrete, windowless. And of course, Dean is different.

Dean sets a plate down in front of Castiel. "Cas?"

Castiel blinks rapidly. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing." Dean sits opposite him, fork in hand, but he doesn't start eating.

"Just – you cooking for me. It brings back memories."

"Bad ones?" Dean asks cautiously.

"Bit of a both," Castiel replies honestly.

Dean winces. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Castiel says, giving him a brief smile. And he means it. This is just something Castiel is going to have to work through. He picks up his fork and spears a chunk of omelet.

Dean doesn't look convinced, but he drops it.

"Tell me more about the vampire case," Castiel says. "The stuff the FBI doesn't know."

Dean relaxes a little and launches into an explanation of how he and the other hunters found the remaining nests and eliminated them. They didn't just use the files Dean retrieved, but also normal hunting methods – looking for suspicious deaths or unexplained phenomena. Vampires aren't like demons, who left signs behind like lightning storms, but there are still things to look for – missing blood from blood banks, medical facilities being hit. Things the FBI wouldn't search, not on their own.

Dean continues through the meal and after, grabbing Castiel's empty plate and ducking down to give Castiel a kiss.

Castiel freezes, and then returns it.

But Dean notices. He stiffens, then very slowly and deliberately withdraws, two plates in hand.

"I'm sorry," Castiel blurts. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you," Dean says, a lot more strongly than Castiel expects. "There's nothing wrong with you, Cas. There's plenty of shit wrong with this situation, though."

Easy affection isn't so easy anymore. "I just need an adjustment period." He holds out his hand to Dean. Dean's retreated to the far side of the kitchen, staying near the full sink. He looks quietly devastated. "Dean."

Dean licks his lips, looking around the kitchen instead of at Castiel. "Is it always going to be like this? You afraid of me, and then trying to move past it? Failing?"

"I'm not failing," Castiel snaps, then softens. "Dean, don't freak out over this. A little … uncertainty is normal."

"Nothing about this is normal."

"We were never normal," Castiel agrees after a moment. "Which is why we're here."

Dean exhales roughly. He looks away and grips the countertop with one hand, knuckles white. "Well, fuck. You know where to hit."

"It extends beyond you kidnapping me, Dean. We'll never be normal. And I've accepted that." He pauses. Dean once told Castiel that they weren't normal, that they were soulmates, and that was all that mattered. That logic led him dangerous places. "I think we can be healthy together, Dean, just not … average."

Dean finally looks at Castiel, green eyes intent. "You really believe that?"

"I do, yes."

"I once said that to justify all my fucked up shit." Despite the verbiage, Dean delivers the words calmly.

"Well, there was a kernel of truth in it, despite that."

Dean doesn't quite believe him, but he also doesn't look willing to argue. So he starts loading the dishwasher and changes the subject. "What do you want to do today?"

Castiel finally withdraws his hand. "What is there to do? You rented this place out."

Dean smiles a bit. "Well, we're pretty remote out here. You want to take a walk? I'm kinda tired of being locked in rooms."

Castiel relaxes. "I'd like that."

The tension in Dean's shoulders eases.

Dean's t-shirt, boxers and jeans fit a little loosely on Castiel. Castiel is by no means a small man, but Dean is just a bit taller and bigger-boned. Castiel didn't bring a duffel for purely practical reasons – he didn't want to be noticeable – but he sees the look of simple satisfaction on Dean's face when he puts on Dean's clothes. Maybe more than satisfaction.

Castiel offers his hand, and Dean takes it. They go outside.

The air is cool and lovely. Castiel stops on the porch, inhaling deeply. Dean's soft, "Nice, huh?" goes unanswered. It doesn't need to be.

The trees glimmer with green and spots of yellow and red. The road leading to the cabin is barely paved, and a thick oak tree cuts off most of the view of it. Old, old branches hang low, thick with leaves still. The smell of wet wood hangs in the air. It must have rained last night.

Castiel squeezes Dean's hand, and they walk.

There's a small path that winds around the cabin and then farther into the woods. After half a mile, it turns into more of a deer trail than a proper path. Castiel slows down, making sure to note landmarks so they don't get lost. He actually doesn't know how much Dean knows about survival in the wild. Castiel grew up in a fairly rural area and his father took him and his brothers camping, and the FBI instills basic skills. He wishes he'd brought a knife, just in case.

It's nice out here. Dean somehow knew exactly what he needed. Castiel looks over at his lover, his new lover in many ways.

Dean raises an eyebrow and swings their joined hands. Castiel laughs.

"I know you don't want to talk about – well, the outside world." Dean pauses, as if reconsidering those words. The outside world was a phrase with a different meaning, more than two years ago. "But where do you want to go from here? I mean, with the two of us?"

"I want to keep meeting with you," Castiel says, certain of that much. "We'll have to figure out a safer way to do it, though."

"I can call in a favor or two with Anna?" Dean suggests. "She could pick you up, take you anywhere in the world. Fucks up your gut, but untraceable."

Castiel squints at him. "My gut? Flying with an angel –"

"Constipation," Dean says, totally serious. "I swear to God, I think it's because she's lazy and like flying around really fast and carelessly or something and my molecules don't always get put together right."

Castiel laughs into his hand, turns it into a cough.

"It's not funny! Once I didn't shit for a week."

Castiel laughs out loud this time. "I'm sorry, Dean, but travel by angel … I just …"

"Well, fair warning, dude."

"Noted," Castiel says. He's tempted to not believe Dean, but the supernatural often has an air of the ridiculous. Terrifying, but also strange tipped over into funny. Probably one of the reasons people don't believe it when they see it. "You can talk to her about it. My impression is that she's not often available, and doesn't like me much."

"Well, you did banish her." Dean smiles, unexpectedly. "Good job with that, by the way. I know I didn't teach you that trick."

"I've learned my own tricks," Castiel says, "over the past two years. Ones you probably know, I'm aware of that, but I needed to fill in the empty spaces in my supernatural knowledge. For hunting."

Dean nods. "Makes sense. You've done a couple of hunts on the job, right?"

"Yes. And a couple with Morgan." Castiel looks out at the forest. The path is getting even less clear, so Castiel decides to stop. There's a fallen tree nearby, and it still looks fairly sturdy. It must have been pulled over by a storm; the roots are still intact. He sits. "I always make sure he's more careful than I am. He's got a lot more to lose."

Dean leans against it, but doesn't fully sit, and keeps his hands clear of actually touching the wood. "How can you say that? You're just as –"

"He has a family, Dean," Castiel says, looking Dean in the eye. "A wife and newborn boy. I have Balthazar, yes," and he's been avoiding thinking about that, "but not someone who is that dependent on me."

Dean nods slowly. "I got it. Yeah. So you're, um, taking the fall?"

Castiel shrugs. "Not really. Everything they're after me for, I did. Morgan wasn't involved in my mistakes, fortunately."

"I am sorry," Dean says quietly. He takes Castiel's hand, entwining their fingers.

"I know you are," Castiel says, smiling briefly. "I told you once I didn't blame you for telling me about the supernatural, because it was information I needed as law enforcement – a missing piece of the puzzle, in cases I worked. That's still true. It's not your fault the world is ignorant of what's really out there, and that it makes me look … crazy." Castiel sighs. "I've had moments of anger, but I know –"

"It's okay to feel that, you know. To be mad at me. Instead of stuffing it all down." Dean smiles a bit painfully. "All that therapy taught me that much."

Castiel dips his head in acknowledgement of that point. "Same here." It's sometimes difficult to remember that his feelings, whatever they were, he had a right to them.

Dean falls into silence, turning away from Castiel and facing the forest.

Castiel waits, letting the sounds of the forest distract him. He hears rustling sometimes, fallen leaves being disturbed, or a tree branch suddenly waving as a hawk settles down on it. A brown rabbit, no doubt looking out for predators, skitters around in the brush. A flock of black birds takes off nearby, flickering shadows in their wake.

After a few minutes, Castiel closes his eyes. Just sits and memorizes the feel of the air on his skin, cool and slightly wet. Will he lose this someday?

Prison couldn't hold Dean unless he permitted it, because of Anna. He supposes the true is probably the same for him, if things go that badly.

"You know, I never really liked camping," Dean says.

"Why's that?" Castiel asks, opening his eyes.

Dean squints, looking around the area. "Dad didn't take us camping for fun. He did it to teach us survival skills, in case we ever got lost in the wild during a hunt. So, knowing what berries to eat and all that shit. I hated it. Sam hated it less, but yeah. Dad finally quit the yearly training session when Sam was fourteen and I was eighteen."

"Why'd he stop?"

"I could legally work," Dean says easily. "Finished my GED, got a local job, fed and clothed Sam."

Castiel raises his eyebrows. "That was your father's job, not yours."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah. Sam said that, too. But Dad did a lot of good, too, you know? All those times he was gone." There's a soft bitterness there, like he's gone through hate, through forgiveness, to an old, worn feeling that encapsulates both.

"I think a man's duty to his children goes before his duty to strangers," Castiel says, unsure how Dean will react.

Dean looks at him. Cracks a small smile. "Sam said the same thing. Right before he left for Stanford."

Castiel knows how hard that was on Dean, and not just intellectually, through Dean's words. His family delivered an ultimatum for entirely different reasons, but the same result. It's been twenty years since Castiel spoke to his parents. Dean's mixed feelings about his father are something that Castiel can relate with. "Did you ever want kids, Dean?"

Dean blinks, startled. "Nah. Scared me shitless. I was a kind of step-parent to Ben, Lisa's kid, but – and especially after knowing everything about angel bloodlines? Hell no. I don't want my kids to be used like that." Dean doesn't seem bitter, though. "What about you?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I've always put work before family." Though he's not now. Dean is … his lover. Family. "Or I used to."

A series of conflicted emotions cross Dean's face. He settles on actions instead of words, sitting on the log he'd refused to touch earlier, and swings an arm around Castiel's shoulders. Castiel leans into the touch, and Dean squeezes him tight. "Love you," Dean whispers, like the words hurt.

Castiel turns to give Dean a gentle kiss, before returning to letting Dean hold him. "I love you, too. You want to head back?"

"Lunch would be good," Dean agrees, his breath ruffling Castiel's hair. But they don't move.

Castiel missed this. Just talking with Dean. Sharing. They did so much of it during Castiel's captivity, and yet it somehow pleases Castiel to know there's still things to learn about Dean. Details. Shifts of emotion, here and there. Dean's a puzzle that will never stop unfolding, and Castiel wants to keep going deeper. Because the deeper he goes – the deeper they go – the more connected they are.

Dean was the cause of Castiel's desperate need to mentally and emotionally survive, and yet, he gave Castiel the tools to do so at the same time.

And now? Castiel can do that without a need driving it. Well, not a need to survive – just a need to know.

Dean pulls Castiel out of his thoughts. "Sandwiches for lunch?" Dean asks.

Castiel nods. "Sounds good to me."

"You know," Dean says, "you could do it instead of me."

"And miss your five inch stacker? No, thanks."

"Oh, so you think I'm the wife in this relationship?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Aren't you?" Castiel teases.

"Hey!"

Dean is and always has been a caregiver, first and foremost with Sam – that's where the skills took – but it's an elemental part of his nature first. Castiel doesn't think that trait is irrevocably linked to being female, of course, and Dean's case it was one of necessity. No one else, mainly John, was going to fulfill that role for Sam. And over time, Dean came to need that aspect of his relationship with Sam, even to unhealthy level. Castiel knows they fought over Dean's need to protect his brother over everything else. Closing the gates of hell is a prime example. It was probably one of the most difficult decisions of Dean's life to let Sam die for that.

Some of that need of Dean's to be taking care of someone contributed to his kidnapping of Castiel, of course. But the core of it is a good thing, just warped by loneliness and emotional damage.

Dean pokes Castiel in the side.

"Ow!" Castiel gives Dean a betrayed look, but he's smiling.

"You're thinking too much," Dean says, and drags him into the cabin. It hasn't been long, but the wide, open layout is starting to seem familiar. Certainly familiar enough for Castiel to relax. "Ham or chicken? Or both?"

"Both," Castiel says.

Dean opens the fridge. "For the record, I'm not going to be Mrs. Novak."

"I was thinking of hyphenating our names," Castiel replies without hesitation.

Dean chokes a little, peeks over the fridge door. "That answer came too easily."

Castiel laughs. "Now _you're_ over thinking."

Dean settles all he needs on the countertop and pauses. "Would you?"

Castiel has to parse that for a second. "Marry you?"

Dean nods.

"Did you just propose?" Castiel asks with a raised eyebrow, leaning forward with his forearms on the kitchen table.

Dean blushes bright red. "No, of course not!"

"Then don't worry about it."

Dean gives him a suspicious look, mixed with … worry?

"Dean –"

The assembling of the sandwich begins. "If you don't like this sandwich, I'll kick your ass." Dean throws a smirk over his shoulder.

Castiel chooses to drop it.

* * *

The bedroom has two large skylights in it, and Castiel lazily watches the beams of light move across the wall as the afternoon wears on. He's down to boxers again, Dean's of course, and even though he's not covered in blankets, he's warm. Dean's pressed up against his side, wearing his t-shirt and underwear. Castiel feels like he might fall asleep any moment, and he's comfortable with that. With Dean. Odd, that once again sleeping together in the same bed starts everything. After Kentucky, and then again, in motel room after motel room.

"Food coma," Dean mutters into Castiel's shoulder.

"Hmm," Castiel replies, closing his eyes.

He wakes to Dean's erection warm against his thigh. And wet, just the tip, dragging across Castiel's skin as Dean thrusts erratically.

Still asleep.

Castiel opens his eyes and looks down. Well. Dean's not the only one with morning wood. Afternoon wood. There's still daylight, though not a lot left.

Enough to see Dean by.

Dean's always been ridiculously handsome. Pretty, almost. When he was younger, certainly, but as he's aged the scruff he keeps looks less like a defense and more like a man who forgot to shave for a few days. Those long lashes over brilliant green eyes, high cheekbones, and plush lips. Castiel was never attracted to men previously, but even he took a second look when he saw Dean's mugshot for the first time.

Castiel's attracted to a lot more than Dean's body, though. His mind, yes, but probably his heart most of all. Damaged, yes, but still so full of light and love. Dean has fought so hard to be right for Castiel.

Castiel shifts to his side, Dean murmuring something in his sleep in reaction. He trails his fingertips over Dean's face, from his temple and down his jaw, then over his soft lips.

Dean gently bites Castiel's finger, and Castiel smiles. Dean opens his eyes second, those lips curving into a grin. "Hey."

Castiel wants to say something, but he doesn't know what, so instead he just kisses Dean. He'll show what he means, if he can't say it. It's not a gentle kiss – when Dean moans and lets his mouth fall open, Castiel pushes in. Dean meets him, passion to passion, and before long they're making out, lips wet and a little swollen from love bites.

When Dean thrusts very deliberately against Castiel's leg, Castiel grabs one of Dean's hands and places over his erection. Dean immediately smoothes his hand along the length, and then begins to jerk him off through the cloth of the boxers.

He breaks the kiss to say, "Can I take these off?"

"Yes," Castiel says into his mouth, opening his eyes to see Dean's, glazed with lust.

Dean hooks two fingers in the waistband and pulls down, Castiel lifting his hips to help. And with that, he's naked.

"You, too," Castiel says.

Dean sits up and gets his shirt off so fast Castiel almost doesn't catch him doing it. He shoves his boxers down to his knees, and then falls onto his side to pull them off entirely. Eager. Castiel smiles at him, and Dean rises over him, knee between Castiel's legs, sliding it upward until it meets skin. Castiel thrusts against Dean's thigh, completely hard now. He skims his palms across Dean's arms, then his chest. Dean's nipples aren't particularly sensitive, but he sometimes reacts, so Castiel pinches them lightly.

Dean makes a face at him.

Castiel laughs, but it's cut off when Dean kisses him again, hard and intent. His cock drags along the inside of Castiel's leg, still wet at the tip, leaving cool trails behind. Dean pulls back after a few minutes of that, just easy thrusting against each other. He palms Castiel's cock again, stroking, breaking their kiss to see Castiel's face.

"Fuck, you're so hot like this," Dean says, licking his lips.

Castiel was never one for dirty talk, so he just moans, and thrusts into Dean's hand.

Dean covers Castiel with his body, hand still on his cock, working it, and then dipping lower, hefting Castiel's balls and then beneath, finger circling his hole. "God, I want to fuck you, I want to fuck you so bad and make you mine –"

Castiel jerks.

A flood of emotion pours through Castiel in that moment. The fear, hesitancy, and arousal that came with his first sexual contact with Dean, still with that cuff on his ankle. Then, too, the feeling that he'll always give in eventually, that Dean will always get his way, will get sex not because Castiel wants it but because Castiel is too weak to say no. A shiver works through him, memories of touches that weren't so welcome, that were confusing along with arousing, violating along with comforting.

His body goes cold.

He shoves at Dean, suddenly frantic not to be touched. "Wait, wait – stop."

Dean pulls off, panting.

Castiel scrambles backwards, heaving breaths out of panic instead of want.

It takes a moment, but Dean sees it. He tries to scramble off the bed, but Castiel grabs his wrist at the last moment and holds on hard, stomping down on his own reaction to flee. Dean's leap backwards turns into a sideway arc, and he ends up hanging off the side of the bed, only his arm touching it. Castiel's grip is so tight that Dean's hand is turning red, and he can see the whites of Dean's eyes, but Dean stops struggling.

They stay like for a long moment, both of them breathing hard.

"Give me – a moment," Castiel says between breaths. Fear and the instinct to flee are pounding away at his determination to stay. His heart is racing, seeming to say run, run, run with every loud beat.

"I'm a monster," Dean whispers.

Castiel is still shaking, still partway in the past, and so it takes a moment for those three words to register.

Dean swallows. "This is why we shouldn't be together."

"Dean. Sit." Castiel cautiously lets him go, but Dean doesn't run.

Instead, Dean rises to his feet very slowly, erection gone, and then sits on the bed, shoulders hunched in less like he's waiting for an attack and more like he's trying to hide. Considering he's naked, the pose is almost beautiful – head bowed, the strong muscles in his back tense, but the context makes Castiel feel sad instead.

Castiel curls up, arms around his legs, head on his knees. "Why – why did you do that, Dean? Why are you so – it seems like you want to own me." And he hates that. He hates that part of Dean, that part that scares him.

Dean meets Castiel's gaze. Then, as if every word aches, he says, "Because I'm scared. I'm scared you'll leave me. And it feels … it feels like if I have that, I have that part of you, and I own some piece of you, and you can't get rid of me." He swallows painfully. "I want to feel … secure."

Castiel wipes his eyes, still dry. "Dean, I – I want you to feel secure because you trust me, not because you feel like I can't leave."

Dean whispers, "I know."

"I can't do that, Dean. I can't be owned by you."

"That's why I'm a monster!"

"You're not a monster."

Dean clenches his fists, head down.

"Dean, look at me." When Dean obeys, clearly reluctant, Castiel says, "I love you. And I know you love me. We can take the time for you to trust me, okay?"

"I'd never – I want you to know," Dean says urgently, "I'd never hold you prisoner again. Never do anything you don't want. I stopped, Cas, I stopped, and I swear to you I always will."

Castiel's throat is tight and painful. "I know. Dean, I know." He holds out one hand.

Dean gets just close enough to take it and no further, tears spilling from his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Castiel can't say anything to that. So he just holds on and lets the minutes pass. Dean controls himself eventually, calming himself down, though he doesn't move closer or farther from Castiel. He just sits there, quietly. Castiel watches him, and thinks. As much it did once turn Castiel on to be wanted so, so terribly – and it is terrible, painful for Dean – he knows that that was an unhealthy reaction to an unhealthy desire. One person doesn't own another.

Castiel doesn't know why Dean's urge to own is so sexual when it comes to Castiel, but otherwise, he understands what's going on in Dean's head. Dean has abandonment issues stemming from his childhood. His father abandoned him multiple times in multiple ways – first, abandoning Dean to raise himself and his brother. Again to the hunt. And again, when his father died and left Dean with a heavy burden, to protect or kill his brother. After that, Dean interpreted almost any leaving as abandonment. Cassie, even. Certainly Sam, when Sam wanted to leave once they killed the demon that murdered their mother. Sam eventually chose to stay, but that was partially out of a recognition that he couldn't return to his old life. At least initially.

From Dean's words, it always felt like Sam, in the end, chose to stay with Dean out of love and not necessity or a sense of debt. But that period only lasted a few years. Then Sam had to ask Dean to respect his choice to leave, again, and this time permanently. That there were a thousand good reasons to do it didn't really help Dean's emotional state. Saving the world from demons was a good intellectual reason, but not a good emotional one. And that's what Dean needed, and didn't get. Couldn't get – nothing would have been adequate, really. Dean wasn't capable of that.

Dean wasn't capable of that with Castiel, either, in the beginning. He respected Castiel's decision to go in the sense he didn't make another attempt, but emotionally, he felt abandoned. Again.

But Dean tried so very hard to change that. And he's at last changed the intellectual part, the part that reasoned out why he could kidnap and hold Castiel prisoner. But that fear of abandonment still holds steady, in some deep part of Dean's soul.

Castiel has known this for a long time. Since the days when a cuff hang heavy on his ankle.

Time. This will take time, if such a deep wound can ever be healed. If Dean can ever let that scar scab over and learn to trust. This is another facet of Dean not believing Castiel is capable of truly loving him.

"You think I can't be fixed," Dean says suddenly.

Castiel blinks, returning to himself. He looks at their joined hands. "Fixed? You're not a machine, Dean. But be healed? I think so." Though not without a lot of difficulty. And scar tissue.

Dean clears his throat. "There's, um, a spare bedroom. I'll just go and get," he looks down at himself, "dressed, and sleep there. Okay? Give you space."

Castiel takes a deep breath. "How about we make dinner? It's not time for bed – for sleep – just yet."

Dean blinks. "Okay. I'll, I'll get dressed. Clothes." He looks down at their hands, then up at Castiel.

Castiel gently lets him go. "Meet you in the kitchen?"

Dean nods. "Sure. Yeah." A little calmer, this time. He eyes Castiel a moment longer, his thoughts and feelings slowly disappearing behind a wall. Then he nods once and goes.

That means Castiel has a moment to think. But he finds himself staring at the door Dean left through for a long minute, and then he tries to shake himself out of his current headspace. Return to the present in its entirety. Some time passes before he succeeds.

First thought: being naked makes him feel … naked. He solves that with more of Dean's clothes, a full set. He goes into the bathroom and splashes water on his face, blinking at himself in the mirror when he sees how pale he looks. He frowns and goes to the bedroom, doing a short series of stretches. That, too, grounds him in the moment.

Feeling more himself, he goes to the kitchen. He stops in the wide doorway, hand on the door frame.

Dean dressed himself, too. Completely covered in his usual layers. He looks over at Castiel cautiously, then says, "Salmon with rice. And veggies, if that's your thing."

Which it is, and Dean knows that well. But Castiel just nods. "Thank you."

"It'll be done in ten minutes or so," Dean offers.

Castiel sits at the kitchen table, hands flat on the smooth wood surface. "Okay."

Dean turns away to stare at the rice cooker, the pot of steamed vegetables, and the timer that's presumably for the salmon in the oven. There's no need to stare at any of them.

"Sit with me?" Castiel asks.

Dean freezes for a long second. "Sure." He joins Castiel at the table, as far from him as possible.

"I'm not mad," Castiel finally says.

Dean raises his eyes. "I know you're not."

"Then why are you acting like you're scared of me?"

"I'm not scared of you, Cas, I'm scared of myself. Of failing." Dean's breath hitches. "I kept a score, in my journal. Of all the times I had a thought that was bad, that I needed to let go of because it wasn't good, wasn't safe. I was doing good, Cas. Really good. And then when you started coming onto me, I just – I've got more marks."

Castiel blinks, remembering. The first few pages of Dean's journal – which Castiel never read in its entirety – had marks that slowly dwindled over time. "You think you'll relapse?"

Dean shrugs. "I guess not really. But those thoughts and … and urges are still there."

"Then we hit a weak point, Dean, that's all."

"Don't minimize this, please," Dean says, staring at him.

Ouch. And yet, fair. "All right."

"Let me think, okay?" Dean asks. "I need to, um, go through the stuff I learned to change my behavior. Figure things out. I thought I'd had this licked, you know, at least on some level? But, yeah, apparently not."

Time. Dean's asking for time. Castiel can give him that. "Of course. Whatever you need."

"Within reason," Dean says with a small smile, almost making a joke of it.

Castiel smiles briefly, genuine. "Within reason."

The timer dings. Dean gets up, his movements a little more sure, a little more fluid as he grabs plates and forks, takes the salmon out of the oven, and nearly burns his hand on the pot on the stove. He dishes out the food and places a plate in front of Castiel, then before a seat a little closer. Two seats away instead of four.

The meal is good but simple.

Castiel flinches just once, when they settle on the couch together, the TV mindlessly blaring, and Dean touches Castiel's ankle – the one that was cuffed – to move his foot just a little. Castiel jumps, that feeling of terror and being restrained (hitting invisible walls over and over) pouring through him for a few seconds. Dean, once he sees it, doesn't flee, but he doesn't move closer either. He waits, eyes wide.

"You okay?" Dean asks.

Castiel takes a few calming breaths. "Yes."

"Isn't it pretty miserable," Dean asks, "to flinch every time the person you love touches you?"

"I don't flinch every time," Castiel says lamely. He sighs. "I'm –"

"Not sorry," Dean interrupts.

After a moment, Castiel says, "No, I'm not sorry. This isn't ever going to be simple for us, I don't think. But I still believe it's worth it."

Dean smiles faintly. "I'll do my best to make that true."

That fond affection that never fully died out rises in Castiel. "I know you will."

* * *

It's late evening when Castiel decides to go to bed. He borrows pajamas from Dean, who has settled most of his things in one of the guest rooms. There's a flash of pain when Castiel sees that, but he can't decide if it's because it's necessary or because Castiel wishes Dean would spend the night. He's still conflicted over that. He's not sure how he'd react in his sleep, and he doesn't want to plant more doubt about the two of them together in Dean's mind.

There's enough doubt to go around, honestly.

Castiel's still sure of what he wants. But at the same time, sometimes the road there seems so rocky, so broken, that he'll never pass over it. He doesn't want Dean to know about the feeling of hopelessness, mostly because he also knows it's shared.

So he breathes deep and goes to the living room to quietly say goodnight to Dean.

Dean is sitting on the couch, staring at his laptop. They get cable and internet from a satellite out back.

Dean exhales roughly, rubbing his face. "Shit. Cas."

"What is it?"

Dean jumps, looking at Castiel. He doesn't move or say anything for a long moment, making anxiety rise in Castiel. This can't be good. Then Dean motions at the laptop and swings it around. "I got an email from Morgan."

Just one sentence. _They found you in Kentucky._

The case that Castiel deliberately found, among a scattering of others as a poor disguise, that occurred during Castiel's vacation, and now Dean, who they believe he met with, is proven to be there.

"Fuck."

"What does this mean for you?" Dean asks.

A death spiral. Castiel doesn't answer.

Dean gently touches Castiel's shoulder. Castiel doesn't move. Dean gently takes his elbow and sits him on the couch, eyes bright with worry.

"Sometimes I fucking hate you, hate what you've done to my life –" The words drop from Castiel's lips almost without conscious thought, as he loses everything, again and again, first to a cuff and then to the truth and to the hunt and _Dean._

Dean flinches.

Regret. "No, no I don't. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm sorry." Castiel closes his eyes, buries his face in his hands. He wants to curl into a ball and hide, pain and shame. "Dean, I didn't mean that."

"I kinda think you did," Dean says slowly. "And that's okay. For you to hate me sometimes. I did stuff to deserve it. Just like this afternoon."

"Dean –"

"No, listen." Dean takes Castiel's hands, pulling them from his face and forcing eye contact. "Those short moments, you gotta accept them for what they are, or they fester. I let a shitload of stuff fester, Cas, and it fucked me up. Don't do it."

Castiel stares at him. Then, word by word, "Intellectually I know you're not at fault. That I shouldn't blame you for showing me the truth, because the truth is what I've always been after. But sometimes, Dean, sometimes I wish I was as ignorant as the rest of the world."

Dean kisses him, startling Castiel. "Been there," he says simply.

Castiel laughs, not quite bitter. "Of course you have."

"That means I get it, Cas. It's okay. I'm not gonna collapse in tears or self loathing or something. I get it."

Castiel watches Dean for a moment, but he sees nothing but surety there. "You're stronger than you were."

"'Cause of you," Dean says quietly. "You forced me to face everything. And then supported me through it. It's not – my doubts about us aren't from that. I know you care about me. A relationship is different."

Castiel doesn't think he was totally supportive while the phone calls were going on, while Dean was discovering the depth of his sins. He listened, yes, but it was so hard then to offer comfort. So many times he thought he should, and didn't. "I'm not so sure I did all that much for you, before prison and during."

"I am. You've made a better person, Cas."

Castiel smiles. "Quite the compliment."

"You're better than I deserve," Dean says.

Castiel opens his mouth to interrupt.

"No, listen. I hurt you first. I hurt you really badly. Forgiveness isn't a thing you owe somebody, Cas, and you know that. But you gave it to me and more, in spades." Dean pauses. "You remember the tour of the bunker I put you on, right after you got the cuff and tried to escape?"

"Yes," Castiel says uncertainly.

"You were bleeding. Limping. Because of me. And when I passed Sam's room, you leaned into me. You remember that?"

Castiel does.

Dean sees the expression on his face. "See. There you go. Who'd do that but you?"

Castiel shakes his head. "There's not a score."

"I know." Dean eyes him for several long moments, folds himself around Castiel. Castiel sinks into the warmth, the soothing contact, the physical touch that only a few hours ago built such fear in him. Then, and only then, does Dean ask, "What are you going to do?"

Castiel has been avoiding the subject for two days now. This last piece, piled on top of the rest, only makes a plan more urgent. But Castiel feels so hopeless, so confused about what to do. Dean said he should fight for his life, and Castiel agrees with that, but how? What the FBI has on him is damaging if circumstantial. Even if he gets past the investigation without criminal charges, he'll be administratively punished, at the very least. Disappearing on cases. Accessing files he had no reason to. Potentially speaking to a wanted fugitive.

And if they find him in Kentucky …

Hotchner will never forget what he knows. Whether he can prove it is almost irrelevant.

Slowly, Castiel says, "I'm not going to keep my position at the BAU."

"Cas –" Dean says, full of warning.

Castiel shakes his head, a quick, sharp movement. "No. I won't. Hotch may not be able to prove criminal wrongdoing, but he knows in his own mind that I did something wrong."

"There's got to be a way –"

"There is," Castiel says.

Dean stops.

"I can't keep my position at the BAU. That's over." And God, do those words hurt. "But my job at the FBI is a different matter. If I can convince the investigating agents that I wasn't up to what Hotch thinks – what I really was up to – then I can salvage my career. Hotch won't take me back, not without an admission, and I can't admit to anything without it unraveling further." Without Castiel at Kentucky being a certainty, at least in Hotchner's mind. Maybe worse. Depends on how much Hotchner has guessed. "But Hotch isn't who I have to convince, not to stay an agent. The internal investigators make that call, and they don't answer to Hotch."

Dean seems to accept that. "What'll you convince them of?"

Castiel pauses, mind racing. "A defense attorney doesn't just tear the prosecution's case apart. That's not enough to convince a jury, not always. They offer another theory of the case. Another suspect."

Dean gets it. "You need to spin them an alternative narrative."

Castiel nods, staring out at nothing, a million half formed plans collecting in his mind. "Yes. Something that makes sense to them, even if the BAU would never buy it." Castiel turns. "I'll need your help."

Dean smiles at him. "Always. Anything."

Castiel smiles back.

* * *

Castiel wakes up, and for a second he doesn't remember the nightmare.

Then he does.

Castiel has lost his job at the BAU. Oh, not officially, not yet. But he can't see a way out of that consequence. In order to keep his job at the FBI at all, he's going to have to accuse them of bias, and maybe worse. When he walked out that day, he had a feeling he wasn't coming back; he now knows that's true. Now is the time for damage control, and to accept what is too badly damaged to salvage.

He'll have Morgan, and Morgan's support, at least. He might be able to keep a few friendships – Reid, Rossi. JJ struck him as more suspicious of him, along with Hotchner, so she's probably a lost cause. So. Half.

Castiel's breath hitches. He holds his next breath for a few seconds, before slowly letting it out. Again. Again.

He's not going to cry over this. He accepted the consequences of both hunting and continuing to communicate with Dean.

When he opens his eyes, sunlight dazzles him for a long moment. The cabin master bedroom is light and cheery. He's on his last day here, before he has to go back and try to fix things possibly unfixable, but dwelling on that won't do him any good. He has to use what time he has to relax, to enjoy – to enjoy Dean, really, the person he's given up so much for.

He rubs his face and stretches in bed, grunting when his back audibly cracks.

"Hey."

Castiel blinks and looks at the doorway.

Dean's in only boxers. He smiles at Castiel.

"I've been meaning to ask you about those," Castiel says. "Your new tattoos."

Dean blinks and looks down. There's four new ones; Castiel counted. Two are on Dean's arms, one across his ribs – that one looks similar to Castiel's, though not exactly the same – and the fourth is just above his hipbone. Dean points at the one across his ribs. "Angels." The one on his hipbone, with beautiful sprawling text. "Blessing and protection against evil spirits." One on his arm, looking vaguely Celtic. "Supposedly makes it harder for certain monsters to recognize you and know your name, dunno for sure. That was in the bunker." The last one, on his other arm, is totally unfamiliar. "Protection against the eyes of evil-doers, according to the spellbook I used. Had to get the artist to put stuff in his ink. Boy did that cost a pretty penny."

"They worked," Castiel comments.

"Yeah, seems like it." Dean scratches the back of his neck. "Can I come in?"

Castiel sits up. "Of course."

Dean settles on the far corner of the bed, cross-legged. He looks relaxed, his shoulders loose, his hands not curled in fists but laying on his knees. "So, here's the thing. I want you to fuck me."

Castiel stares. Then he gets his tongue working. "You want me to fuck you?"

"Yeah." That's it. No explanation. Just Dean, sitting on the bed half naked.

"As in, anal sex?" Castiel asks, wanting to make sure he's understanding this.

"Yeah, that's right." Dean pauses. "Thing is, Cas, I know I should trust you. Gut deep kind of trust. I know I should have it."

"You can't force –"

"Cas, logically, in my head," he points at his own head, "I know I can trust you. You've never lied to me, Cas. You always intended to escape. You never promised you wouldn't, not even when you said you loved me. Not even when I tried to get you to do it, and you were under so much pressure. So I know – I know – I can trust you now. 'Cause you do what you say you will."

Castiel doesn't know what to say. This is the very last thing he expected this morning.

"So this is on me. This is my thing to deal with. And I'm going to have to force it because I'm fucked up inside. I'm gonna have to use my head to, fuck, to tell the rest of me what to do."

"This kind of sex isn't insignificant for you, Dean."

Dean nods. "Yeah, I know it's not. It's –" Dean stops. "Haven't let a guy since before hell. Like I told you before. But I know I can trust you, even if I don't always feel it. So I want to do this." He swallows. "I trust you, Cas. And, I gotta say, for me when you let me fuck you, it was like you were mine, like I owned you on some level. And you've always owned me. I was so fucked up I wanted to control everything, but you were and are everything, just fucking everything. So I owe you this. I need this. Please, Cas."

The word owe nearly makes Castiel interrupt, but the word need stops him. "You need this."

"I think I do, yeah." Dean looks at him evenly.

"Why?"

Dean sighs. He trails his fingers over the comforter. "Cas."

"Because then you'll trust me? I don't think it works that way."

Dean bites his lip. "That's part of it," he says. He holds up a hand. "But not all of it."

"Okay," Castiel says in a tone that reserves judgment.

"I've been thinking pretty much all night about this. You know how I said that you own me? I always felt like I couldn't give you, you know, all of me. For lots of reasons. Holding you prisoner, feeling like I was responsible for your emotional well being so I couldn't put any of my shit on you – and yeah, I know how fucking ironic that is." Dean snorts. "Deluded. But that's what I thought. And I don't wanna do that anymore, Cas. I feel like I showed you all of my evil shit, and you were okay with it. Well, not okay, but you understood. You didn't call me a monster during all those phone calls, even when I deserved it. And so …" Dean stops. "I don't know if I'm explaining this right. You know how you said that if you let me fuck you, I'd have taken everything there was to take? I want you to take it all, Cas. 'Cause you're it, for me."

Castiel's heart nearly breaks. "Oh, Dean."

"Can I kiss you?" Dean asks, the words coming out in a rush.

Castiel nods, and then Dean's there, close enough to touch. To kiss. But he stops there, waiting for Castiel.

"You tell me what to do. How to touch you, not touch you. Okay?"

Dean, trying to be so careful around Castiel's flashbacks. Castiel nods.

"Can I kiss you?" Dean asks again.

"Yes," Castiel whispers.

Dean kisses him. "Do you want to fuck me, Cas?"

Castiel imagines it, reversing his own experiences. Castiel liked it, of course. So should Dean. Castiel wouldn't have consented to it more than once otherwise. Or at least, he doesn't think he would have. He knows that he enjoyed it – the sensations, but also giving Dean pleasure. The physical act itself wasn't the whole of it, and never was. Dean attached significance to anal sex and, by proxy, so did Castiel. That Dean gets that, here, now, is not something Castiel ever really expected. Dean would appear to discuss the topic, but he really dodged the issue repeatedly, and Castiel knew why – his experiences in hell contributed to a lot of Dean's sexual hang-ups. Is Dean ready for that?

"I do. But are you sure?" Castiel asks.

"I'm sure."

Castiel searches Dean's face for any doubt. Then, "Now?"

"If you don't mind," Dean says, almost shyly.

Castiel can't say no to that. "How do you want me to do this? I want you to be comfortable."

"Tell me what to do, so I know – so I know I'm not hurting you." Dean smiles faintly. "That's all I need."

Castiel suddenly wants to ask what happened in hell, just so he knows what Dean's triggers are, but now isn't the time, and if it were, Dean probably wouldn't answer. Details about hell have always been sparse, and Castiel never wanted to put Dean in pain, so he didn't push. "You have to tell me if you need to stop. Agreed?"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waits, looking eager now.

"Take off your clothes?"

Dean smiles, as if Castiel said something cute. But he doesn't say anything, just obeys, slipping off his boxers. He's already half erect. Definitely interested.

Right. Castiel has to do that, too. He shoves the blankets off of him and lifts his hips, pulling off his boxers – well, Dean's – in one smooth move. "Come here?"

"You don't have to ask," Dean says, crawling over on his hands and knees.

Castiel smiles at him. Yes, he does, but he'll humor Dean. It occurs to Castiel that they're both coming into this damaged. "Do you want to kiss me?" No reason to skip foreplay.

"Always," Dean replies instantly. He doesn't wait for anything else, just presses his lips against Castiel's.

They make out, wet and deep, for several minutes. Castiel's hands are in Dean's short hair, and Dean is stroking along Castiel's jaw, but otherwise they aren't touching. Dean is waiting for permission to go further. "Do you want to suck me?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean says. "Can I?"

Castiel nods, giving permission. He spreads his legs, giving Dean room to maneuver. Dean settles between his thighs slowly, giving Castiel plenty of time to react. Then he sucks the head of Castiel's cock into his mouth, applying gentle pressure and suction. One hand goes around the base of Castiel's cock, stroking in time to Dean's mouth. It's markedly different from the first blowjob that Castiel got from Dean – for one thing, he's already aroused. For another, Dean is going at a glacial pace, demanding nothing, not even a reaction.

Castiel settles his hands in Dean's hair again, fingers running through the soft strands. Despite Dean's gentleness, Castiel rapidly hardens. They never finished what they started last night, and even if his mind knows why, his body doesn't.

Dean pulls off, mouth wet. Castiel's cock twitches at the sight. "I've got lube in my duffel."

"Optimistic?" Castiel asks dryly.

But to his surprise, Dean looks wary. "You do want sex, don't you?"

"Of course, I wouldn't have – Dean, I came onto you. I started this whole thing. Yes, I want sex. I was only teasing you."

"Don't tease me," Dean says, looking very relieved. "At least not about that."

"Fair enough," Castiel says, stroking Dean's cheek. "Go get it?"

"Again with the questions," Dean says, grinning, then hops off the bed. He has to go to the guest bedroom to get it, and returns with his cock hard and bobbing in the air.

Castiel gets up off the bed, walking to Dean and taking the tube instead of waiting for Dean to come to him. He kisses Dean once. "Are you sure about this?"

"Stop making me nervous," Dean says, smiling nervously.

"I want this to be good for you," Castiel says, hand on Dean's cheek.

Dean turns to kiss his palm. "It will be." He clambers onto the bed, on his back, and then spreads his legs. It's a position Castiel's seen, of course, except usually it was Castiel giving Dean a blowjob, or in some cases they just rubbed up against each other until they came, if they were both tired. Dean pulls up his knees, though, and that's different. Unusual.

Castiel settles on the bed, fingers stroking along Dean's inner thighs. Dean shivers, and Castiel smiles at him. "You're beautiful," Castiel says, truth and reassurance.

Dean goes red. "Yeah, sure, right."

"You are," Castiel insists. "You know the first time I saw your mugshot, I had to take a second look? Definitely the most attractive serial killer I'd ever seen."

Dean laughs. "I'm not sure how to feel about that."

Castiel kisses Dean's knee, pulling it up a little farther. "Complimented."

Dean grins, all boyish charm. "Okay."

Castiel gets a finger slick, and then circles Dean's hole with it. Dean inhales sharply, but he doesn't move away or try to close his legs. "Good?"

"Yeah, don't stop," Dean says, beginning to breathe hard.

Castiel has fingered Dean before, either with his mouth on Dean's cock, or making him come from his fingers alone. He knows where Dean's prostate is, and just how good it makes Dean feel. Despite the nearly three years between the last time he did this, it feels natural to fall back into knowing how to push Dean's body to where he wants it to go. One, then two fingers, and then Castiel hits Dean's prostate.

Dean jerks and moans. "Fuck."

"Keep going?"

"Fuck, Cas, yes, just fuck me," Dean says, pushing down on Castiel's fingers. He doesn't look tense or worried, exactly. Slightly nervous, mostly hidden under the flush of arousal.

Castiel pauses, staring at him.

Dean swallows hard. "I love you," he whispers.

Castiel strokes himself, getting himself slick with one hand while the other shifts a third finger into Dean's body. "I love you, too."

A kind of gentle joy spreads across Dean's face. Castiel takes the opportunity – Dean is very relaxed, now – and moves forward, hands moving Dean's legs into place. He presses the tip of his cock against Dean's hole, and then stops there.

Dean wraps his legs around Castiel's waist and says, "Come on, come on, fuck I want to pull you in –"

Castiel pushes.

The grip around the head of his cock is hot and intense. Dean's still tight. Castiel almost withdraws, but there's no pain on Dean's face. Instead, he's staring at Castiel with a look of wonder on his face. "It doesn't hurt," Dean whispers.

Castie's heart aches. "It shouldn't."

"Show me," Dean says, demands. Finally demands, getting insistent in nudging Castiel closer, deeper. It's not the desire to control that fuels it, though. Dean's not even in his head enough for that. It's desire, a base instinct for pleasure matched by trust. Because Dean isn't afraid, Castiel realizes. He should be. He's scarred, too, and by this act. But he's not afraid, because on some level he does trust Castiel. Maybe not all the way, maybe not deeply enough yet, but there's trust there. It exists.

Castiel pushes until his balls meet Dean's ass. He groans, fighting the urge to just start thrusting. It's been so long since he'd been in someone like this – with a woman, of course, in the past. He couldn't do with this with Stephen, and he realizes now that that was because Stephen wasn't it, for him. Stephen was a step, a necessary one, and a good friend, but while the sex was good it wasn't intense. It didn't have the weight of heavy, soul-deep emotion behind it.

This does. This is more than sex.

Dean's rate of breathing is increasing, flushed red from his face to his chest. "Are – are you okay?"

He's asking if Castiel is having a flashback. "I'm okay," Castiel whispers. "Just savoring the moment."

"Yeah," Dean says, just as quiet. "Me, too."

They stay there for almost a minute, just locked together. Castiel doesn't soften, and neither does Dean.

Then, without asking, Castiel withdraws. Moves forward. Thrusts, again and again.

Dean tilts his hips up to meet Castiel's hips, muscles in his stomach jumping as he uses the fine control he has to respond to Castiel's movements. He's in shape, and knows every part of his own body intimately, and he's showing that here.

It's beautiful. Dean's body is beautiful, in its scars and in its strength. A mirror of its owner.

Castiel fucks Dean, makes love to Dean. The two intermix. Sweat drips off his body, down his nose, itching, but he doesn't care. The pleasure running through his body overwhelms everything else. The relief and joy he feels at Dean's pleasure overtakes his mind, and his mind's worries and fears. The present overpowers the past.

When Castiel gets close, he shifts his weight onto one hand so he can grab Dean's cock and stroke in time to his thrusts, his hand sliding over Dean's. Dean stops jerking himself off and lets Castiel take over stroking, head tilted back and his throat exposed as he moans at Castiel's touch.

Then, almost without warning, Dean comes. Semen jets out of his cock, landing on his belly, and his ass tightens on Castiel's cock.

Half surprised and half ready, Castiel blunders into orgasm with him. "Oh – Dean, fuck," Castiel groans, and then falls forward, nearly slipping out of Dean entirely.

Dean's hands brace him until Castiel's quivering muscles regain control. He slowly grins up at Castiel, his lover. "Hey there."

He has to shove Dean nearly in half, but Castiel is able to kiss him. "Hey," he whispers in return, smiling.

No flashbacks. No pain. Just the two of them, in a new moment for both of them.

"Thank you," Dean says quietly, hands cupping Castiel's face.

Castiel closes his eyes, which are suddenly stinging. Then he opens them, and says, "You're welcome." Because he knows Dean means it. It's not him being flippant, or even just thanking him for the sex. It's about more than that. It's about Castiel taking Dean to his bed at all, after what Dean put him through. And while Castiel didn't do it for Dean, precisely – he did it because he wanted to, because Dean was more important than his scars, because once his wounds healed, then he could turn back to the good parts of the man he knew and loved, and not just remember the bad parts. Loving Dean is both a selfless and selfish thing.

They stay like that, breathing slowing down, until Castiel naturally slips out.

Dean makes a face at the sensation of Castiel's come sliding out as well, and Castiel laughs. He knows that feeling well, and he never entirely got used to it. Oh, he didn't mind it, but sometimes it was strange, like he could take a step back and wonder how he got there, with a man's cock in his ass, liking it, loving this damaged, wonderful man.

Castiel grabs a corner of the sheet and cleans them up, balling the sheet and throwing it off the bed. The blankets are already on the floor somewhere.

"Going to be cold," Dean comments.

"No, we won't be," Castiel says, closing his eyes against the light of midmorning and curling around Dean.

Nice and warm.

* * *

Castiel wakes up alone, but the sheets are still warm. He stretches, not worrying about Dean's absence. Their lovemaking had been wonderful – for once, without either party being triggered into an unwanted behavior. It feels like Castiel finally had sex the way he always _wanted_ to have sex with Dean, without something hanging over their heads. Part of it is that that particular sex act was one they never had during Castiel's captivity, so on some level it's untainted. Not that Castiel never wants to have Dean inside him again – he does. It just might take a while for that to be as comfortable as this morning was.

Castiel smiles and opens his eyes. He gets up without dressing, and heads for the kitchen. Dean's always been a food man.

Dean's there, in boxers and a t-shirt, standing over a pan filled with what looks like tuna melts. He turns, and gives Castiel a brilliant smile. "Hey."

"Good afternoon."

Dean grins. "Yeah, kind of slept the morning away. Not that I regret that or anything."

Castiel sidles over and kisses Dean. "How long you been up?"

"Not long," Dean says, glancing at the microwave clock. "Twenty minutes?" He eyes Castiel's naked body. "For the record, I only got dressed because hot stuff in kitchen plus skin equals bad."

"Understood." Castiel hugs Dean from behind, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist.

"Hmm." The sound is pleased. Dean flips the sandwiches, revealing perfectly toasted, golden brown bread.

"I have to admit the cooking was a perk."

Dean tenses for a second – Castiel feels it – then relaxes. "Of course it was. I'm a genius cook."

Quieter, Castiel says, "I have to leave today."

"You can stay longer," Dean offers. "I can call the office, extend the rental."

"No, I need to go home and deal with what's happened. Implement the plan."

Dean flips the sandwiches onto two plates, then turns and looks at Castiel. He takes Castiel's hand and squeezes hard. "You can do this. You'll make this work. You're a hell of a lot smarter than they are, Cas."

Not smarter than the BAU, but maybe smarter than the internal investigators. "I'll try to be."

The day goes weirdly slowly after that. They eat together and take a shower together, not having small talk, but instead talking about the big things in little spurts. Meeting each other is going to be harder than ever, and Castiel will have to be more careful with hunting. Outside of the BAU it's likely that he'll see less of the supernatural, but it's still possible, and he has to account for it. Dean promises to keep connected to the hunters who helped them with the vampire case, so if Castiel needs help on a hunt it'll be someone less obvious than Dean Winchester, wanted serial killer and kidnapper.

Castiel lies curled up on the bed while Dean packs, just watching.

Dean is efficient and orderly about packing, which makes sense; he's done it countless thousands of times, over the course of a childhood following a hunting father, and then hunting himself. He never had much of a break from it, unlike Sam. He's always been on the move. When he finishes, he looks up at Castiel. "Do you think that you'd still risk all this for me if I hadn't taken you? If we'd fallen for each other the normal way?"

Castiel blinks. "What makes you think of that?"

Dean shrugs. "Do you know the answer?"

It's a complicated answer, but Castiel knows it. He may not have ever gotten close enough to Dean to love him enough to risk his entire life. "I wouldn't have let you in," Castiel finally says. "Not knowing the risks. I'm not sure I would have tried."

Dean doesn't flinch, but it's a close thing.

"It's not an indictment of you, Dean. Just the unfairness of the situation. You've saved countless lives – hell, the world – and no one knows it. I've saved a few dozen, and I'm the hero. You're condemned, and I'm praised." Castiel pauses. "What I mean is, even if I knew the truth, I'd still see the purpose in my own work as higher than personal pleasure. I had to know you – to really, really know you – to be willing to give that up."

"I'm personal pleasure?" Dean asks.

"Well," Castiel says, "and you have a great deal of purpose in your work. In our work. I'm not sure I would have seen it that way without living it, though."

Dean nods slowly. "Okay." He crawls onto the bed and touches Castiel's face, small, gentle touches.

They kiss, languid, until Castiel withdraws and tells Dean that they need to go.

The bus depot is nearly empty when they arrive. Castiel checks for security cameras, finds some, and notes the address. He buys a ticket, and they go outside.

"Be safe," Castiel tells Dean.

"I'd tell you to be a fighter," Dean says, "but you always are."

They part.

Castiel rides buses for the rest of the day and night. By midmorning the next day, he calls a cab from a payphone, pays the cabbie in cash, and then steps out in front of a house. It's very small, built more than fifty years ago, and cheery in its own way. The purple trim looks a little odd against the subdued colors of the houses around it, but the little white picket fence fits right in. The gravel and rock formations instead of grass less so.

Castiel knocks on the door.

Balthazar opens it, expression changing from calm curiosity to lightning fast shock. "Cassie!"

Castiel smiles. "Hello, Bal."

* * *

"Holy fuck, Cassie." Balthazar leans back in his couch. Then he gets up and goes to the kitchen, a bright aqua monstrosity, and comes back with a bottle of whiskey. He looks at Castiel very seriously, jiggling the bottle. For once, there's not really a facade of humor over his face. He knows how serious this is, and he's not going to joke about it. "I think you need this."

Castiel sinks into the armchair further. He rubs his face, his eyes hurting. He's been awake and active too long, taking so many bus rides to get here. "One glass. I don't want to get totally wasted. I have to explain to the FBI where I went off to sometime today."

Balthazar wanders back into the kitchen, and returns with two shot glasses. He hands one to Castiel and immediately downs the other, making a face after. "Ugh. I forgot how much that burns."

Castiel stares at the amber liquid, tired mind thinking.

"So that asshole _has_ been stalking you," Balthazar says.

"Apparently." Castiel closes his eyes. He gave Balthazar the same story he intends to give to the FBI. It's a good sign that his brother buys it. Of course, Castiel feels guilty as hell for lying; if he gets caught, Balthazar's going to be in for a serious shock.

"So I was right to be worried," Balthazar continues. "In fact, I was right. Right period. Very right."

Castiel opens one eye. "Yes, you were very right."

"So are you moving?"

Castiel blinks both eyes open. "I don't know. I hadn't thought about it, honestly."

Balthazar drains his glass and gives Castiel the stinkeye. "He's stalking you, Cassie. Stalking is the prelude to all kinds of other fucked up shit that we both know he's capable of!" Then he mutters, "Should've killed that asshole."

Castiel rises to his feet, mostly to keep himself awake for this conversation. "If he knows where I live, and that's a big if, he hasn't done anything about it and I honestly don't think we will. He might be obsessed, but he turned himself into the police and stayed in prison for a year for a reason. I think so, anyway."

"Does the BAU?"

Castiel shrugs. "I don't honestly know. I'm not involved in his case."

Balthazar huffs out a breath and pours another glass, which he stares at moodily. Castiel knows his brother really is just concerned about Castiel's safety. And he has reason to be – Castiel was missing for eighteen months and didn't exactly come back unscathed, at least mentally. Balthazar was there for the burned eggs, nightmares, and strange yearning to be close to Dean again. Of course he's touchy about it.

He doesn't know what Castiel does. He didn't live the past three years, first the year of understanding, where Dean started to change himself, and then the year of complete freedom when Dean was in prison. Dean let Castiel go. He still will, if Castiel wants it, even if he fears it so terribly at the same time. And last, of course, this nearly a year of getting to know Dean again.

Castiel walks past the dusty fireplace, seeing the class pictures on the wall – seventeen of them, for every year Balthazar worked as a teacher. There's a few random pink items, Christmas gifts that Balthazar didn't give for one reason or another, including one that looks suspiciously like a dildo but Balthazar insisted was an abstract art piece. When he walks past the entry to the family room, he sees a half completed pink airplane.

He can't help smiling at it. He turns to look at his brother. "I really do love you, you know."

Balthazar pauses screwing on the lid of the whiskey bottle. "Are you dying?"

"No! I'm just – appreciating what I have."

Balthazar softens. "I love you, too, Cassie."

Castiel sits closer to Balthazar this time, downs the shot, and then puts it down. "I am sorry."

Balthazar blinks. "Huh?"

"I've put you through hell. Worrying about me when I disappeared, then when I came back not exactly right in the head, and watching me try to recover … Dean being loose. I know it's stressful for you."

"It's not your fault!" Balthazar says, eyebrows shooting up. "And fuck, Cassie, you know I'm not like our parents, too afraid of something going wrong to have the chance of it going right. Your career has always worried me, but look at all the good you've done – you've changed hundreds of lives. Saved hundreds of people. Yeah, it freaks me out when you get hurt, but man, you do good work and I know that." He sighs. "Cassie, you know I support your work."

But would he support Castiel hunting? Hopefully Castiel never has to find out. "I know. Thank you, Bal. I didn't mean to say you were like our parents – I just, I know it's been hard."

Balthazar shrugs, setting the whiskey bottle down on the slightly crooked coffee table. "Life out in the world is."

Even more when you know the truth of the world. "Yes," he agrees quietly.

"Isn't it stressful for you, to know he's out there?"

Castiel considers his answer carefully. "Not in the same way it is for you," he says finally.

"I don't think I'll ever understand how you feel about that asshole."

"He does have a name, you know." Castiel keeps his tone mild.

"Well, I can call him that evil, scum sucking scum of the fucking earth and vile piece of shit to ever shit, but asshole is shorter."

Castiel snorts. "Okay, fine."

"You still don't hate him, do you?" Castiel opens his mouth, but Balthazar continues, "Do you even fear him? I know you did before, but the way you talk about him now …"

What can Castiel say? "I don't think he's the same person who kidnapped me. So, no, I don't fear him in the same way that I did." Castiel bites the inside of his cheek, then admits, "There's parts of him that I fear."

Balthazar doesn't reply immediately. Instead he looks at Castiel, a look of dawning realization on his face.

Castiel tenses.

The phone rings.

Balthazar jumps and scrambles for it, leaping off the couch and vaulting to the kitchen where his home phone hangs on the wall, not cordless, a tribute to ten years ago. Castiel only has a cell phone, which he didn't take with him. Balthazar picks up, looking relieved to have the distraction. "Hello?"

Long pause. Balthazar's eyes widen. "Uh, yeah, he's here."

Castiel sits up.

"This morning?" Balthazar sounds confused. Then he stomps two feet before the cord stops him, glaring at Castiel. "Missing for _three days_ , you say?"

Castiel had hoped to skip that part.

"Oh yeah, he's here. He can answer. In fact, he will answer. Get up, Cassie." Balthazar holds out the phone.

Castiel sighs, stands, walks over and takes the phone. "Hello?"

 _"The investigators figured out you were missing thirty six hours ago, you idiot,_ " comes Morgan's voice. " _I hope you have a damn good explanation for this._ "

Castiel did warn Morgan about his leaving, so he wouldn't panic, but he definitely didn't tell anyone else. It wasn't the best of decisions to make. Disappearing in the middle of an investigation when you are the subject of said investigation looks incredibly suspicious, even if you come back with a story about why. But Castiel had needed to go; staying was making him crazy. He needed to get away, not think about it, and spend time with Dean, the person he's risked so much for. Lost so much for. "I do, Morgan."

There's a pause. " _We'll talk when you get back._ "

Then Morgan is suspicious of a tap. It's unlikely, but possible. Dean's kill count has reached such a large number that higher ups are getting concerned about how incompetent this makes the FBI look. Castiel being part of that perceived incompetence means that he'll be looked at closely, not just for reasons why they've failed to capture Dean, but also as a possible scapegoat. "I'll fly home late tonight," Castiel promises.

Morgan sighs, deeply. " _See you then_."

Castiel hangs up.

Balthazar shakes his head, looking disappointed. "He didn't tell you off?"

"I'm sure that comes later."

Balthazar frowns at him. Then eyes him. "Okay, whatever. I'll ask later. You need to sleep, if you're taking a redeye flight. You already look absolutely exhausted. You know where the guest room is. I'll get you up when it's time for dinner."

Castiel tries to look as grateful as possible. "Think you can get the plane ticket for me, too?"

"Yeah, yeah, you lazy bum. Go sleep." Balthazar waves him off.

Whatever realization Balthazar was coming to, he's either forgotten it or chosen to forget it. Castiel gets to the guest bedroom by sheer force of will. Castiel's the one most likely to use it – though he knows Balthazar had a work colleague live here for a month once – so he had to make it at least partially a joke. The walls are a very pale pink, and the rest of the room is decorated in white flowers. Balthazar swears to visitors that pink is Castiel's favorite color, and Castiel insisted on the coloration of the room as a whole.

But at least it's not beige. Castiel's had enough of beige hotel rooms to last a lifetime.

Dean's probably had enough of weird, themed hotels built in the 70's to last a lifetime.

Castiel shoves off his shoes and collapses on the bed.

* * *

Castiel doesn't get the chance to explain anything to Morgan. The two FBI agents investigating Castiel's recent behavior meet him at the airport. He's got his spare set of clothes he keeps at Balthazar's on, a new pair of sneakers, a duffel swung over his shoulder, and frazzled hair. He bets he's got eyes shot with red, too. His nap at Balthazar's was restful but way too short.

The airport is reaching its near peak hour, ten in the morning. Castiel doesn't see the two agents at first – the woman, Agent Hernandez, touches him on the shoulder and he jumps.

"Agent Novak," Agent Hernandez says, expressionless when Castiel turns. "We have some more questions. You didn't say much during your first interview."

"We thought we'd make sure we didn't miss you this time," adds Agent Jones.

Castiel smiles faintly. Very faintly. "Of course."

He talks them into running through a drive through on the way to the FBI offices in Virginia, adjacent to the FBI Academy that the BAU runs itself out of. A McDonald's burger and coffee do enough for his brain that he starts rehearsing what he's going to say. The two agents say almost nothing to him, so he has plenty of time. Of course, their silence is tactic, meant to make Castiel sweat, but in this particular case, knowing that is enough to allow Castiel to relax.

He can do this.

They sit him in an interrogation room and switch on a digital recorder.

"So," Agent Hernandez begins. "How was your visit to Dean Winchester?"

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Did Hotch tell you that was where he profiled me to be?"

She doesn't reply, just waits.

"I didn't visit him, but I did spend some time on Dean, yes. I wanted to know what he'd been up to, that the FBI was so concerned about my welfare regarding him."

"You were investigating him?" Agent Jones asks.

Castiel sighs, a real one. "In a manner of speaking. I didn't disappear for that reason initially. This whole mess with Dean and the investigation into my supposed contact with him has been stressful. I went on a walk and just …" He shrugs. "Kept walking."

"Without any credit cards?"

"I only carry cash on my walks." Castiel pauses. "Which, by the way, anyone could tell you I take all the time."

"Noted. What did you find on Winchester?"

"How long he's been stalking me, mainly," Castiel says. "Since about three months after his escape from prison, in fact. But he's been very careful, and always kept his distance. I don't think he ever intended on making contact."

"So you deny he made contact?"

Castiel gets a notebook out of his duffel. "I started thinking about where I've been over the past six months or so, when not at work at or at home. I made a list. I'm betting this list lines up with where you've seen Dean exactly. But I had a reason to be all those places – after my escape from Dean, I've taken my freedom seriously. As in, I use it. Not just walks, I go new places to see the sights, eat food, that kind of thing. Not being trapped in a few thousand square feet is something I like to enjoy."

Might as well remind them why he wouldn't be talking to Dean, if he were a rational person.

He flips the notebook open. "You can see them here. Did most of this on the four bus I took towards Texas and my brother." Big picture items that flower into small details. The mark of truth. Of course, if Castiel slips up, it's over, but as long as he can maintain this for the investigation, he should be good. "I also wrote down exactly what happened when Dean showed up during the vampire cultist case. I know I've already told you what happened, but hell, you're still investigating, yes? Might as well make sure I'm clear about that."

Agent Hernandez gives him a skeptical look, but takes the notebook. "Can you tell us where you were during your little venture? We need dates, times, and places."

"Uh, yes, of course," Castiel says, as if surprised. "Mind if I?" He points at the notebook.

She hands it back.

Castiel unhooks the pen from the notebook and writes them down as if he's remembering them, instead of the very careful memorization he did with Dean. If things go to plan, Dean will contact Charlie and have a trail put in place for Castiel. A small, threadbare one. If not, all the places Castiel chose as his motels and bus rides were paid for in cash and have very forgetful managers. He pushes the notebook back to her once done.

She spends the next forty minutes going over each place Castiel recorded. Castiel makes no mistakes.

"And your vacation?" Agent Jones asks next. Simple, short questions designed to lead and allow Castiel to elaborate on his answers. Lies get caught in elaboration.

"I wrote down where I went there, too, of course." Castiel shrugs. "Nothing really special in that case, though. I wanted to just get out of the area and sleep."

"Anyone who would remember seeing you?"

"Not that I recall."

"You seem to have a ready answer for everything," Agent Hernandez says, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear. "Agent Hotchner seemed to think you would."

Castiel looks away, deliberately, then returns his gaze to her. "Agent Hotchner is on a vendetta. He's so determined to catch Dean Winchester that my own ambivalence towards that end is perceived as guilt."

"Ambivalence is a bit odd of a reaction, don't you think?" Agent Hernandez asks, while her partner sits back, rubbing his chin as he stares at Castiel.

"Not really," Castiel says. He shakes his head. "Maybe I'm not being clear. I have nothing against those who want to catch Dean. In fact, I want him caught. But I don't feel the same drive for that as the others on the BAU do, and it's simply because I understand Dean so well. With that understanding comes an inability to hate him. I know what he's done, and the evil of it, but to me he's still a human being, not a monster. And I'm afraid the BAU, and Agent Hotchner in particular, have lost their ability to see that – and with it, their ability to be objective."

"Really." Agent Hernandez folds her hands on the table. "Explain."

"They hate him for what he did to me, and I understand that, I do. I felt the same way. But I've healed enough that I don't muster the energy for that anymore." Castiel pauses. "In profiling, you have to be so careful about letting your emotions get in the way. As an agent on an organized crime taskforce, I got to call the criminals I was after monsters, because I didn't need to understand them and their motivations, the deepest part of their personalities, I just needed to skim the surface – understand the jealousy, greed, and anger that drove their actions, and use careful investigative techniques to get the rest." He sighs. "Profiling is less exact, less of a science, and more of a personal skill. Like an art. And the mental balance needed is a hard thing to maintain."

"And you think Agent Hotchner has lost his."

"With regards to this case. Yes." Castiel shrugs. "I'm not saying I have it, either. Just that Hotch, who trust me, I will eternally respect, no longer views Dean Winchester's case objectively. And anything relating to it falls suspect to the same."

"Including you," Agent Hernandez says.

She's going right where he wants. He's leading her a bit obviously, perhaps, but she's going along with it. She's a good investigator, would have to be to do this internally against people with the same training, but she's no profiler. If he gives her a decent enough explanation, she'll buy it. The simplest explanation is often the truth. "A week ago I would have said no, but …"

"What about your search history?"

Castiel nods. "I've thought about that. Honestly, it surprised me when it was brought up, because I did the exact same thing when I was first brought onto the FBI, again when I went on the organized crime taskforce, and a third time when I was permanently brought on board the BAU." This one was a pure blessing. Castiel used paperwork in the past to understand the new organization he was coming into – when he was a uniform, and again when he was a suit. "Go back far enough and you'll see I've been doing that since well before Dean kidnapped me. Going through cases – I didn't think about it consciously, I suppose," Castiel laughs a little, "but it was like coming back to a new world. I wanted to make sure I was in the right mindset for the job."

"Sounds like you have an answer for everything, Agent Novak."

Castiel doesn't answer for a long moment, not meeting her fierce gaze. Then he does, softly, not fighting her intensity with his own. "My life is on the line. I didn't – at first, it didn't seem real, what Hotch was doing to me, calling up this investigation. Of course I didn't have ready answers. Who does, instantly about things you've already moved on from? But I'm not going to let Hotchner's loss of objectivity ruin my life." He stops for a second. "My work, along with my brother, is the most important thing in my life. I wouldn't risk it for a criminal, much less one who hurt me like Dean did. I'm an agent of the FBI, Agent Hernandez."

Agent Hernandez seems to be contemplating this. Which is good. She's taking his words – his theory of the situation, really – seriously. That's all he needs. The evidence, from what he can tell, is still circumstantial.

Of course, the main thing he has to worry about is whether Dean can wipe clean anything proving Castiel was in Kentucky with him. That's where this ultimately hinges. He has to hope – because he can't confirm – that that portion of his plan is being carried out successfully.

Both agents spend the next three hours going over everything he said in this interview and the previous one. They ask about his tattoo ("A symbol of my freedom"), the sigils on his walls at home ("I don't believe in them, but Dean does, and that's what mattered"), and asking more questions on the job about how the interviewees see something as supernatural ("I have a broader perspective on supernatural mythology, what's wrong with that?"). He'd worked out most of his answers with Dean, who tried to poke holes in his arguments. Most changes were of tone and word usage – Dean, who talks to people and tries to ask them questions about the supernatural without seeming to, knows how important that can be.

The interview takes nearly six hours. Castiel gets one break, where he eats a water bottle and a sandwich. Then he goes home, and waits.

* * *

Castiel opens his door and blinks. "I thought you were the pizza guy."

"I hope you got enough for two," Morgan replies. He looks tired, though it's more in the body language than on his face. Unlike Castiel, Morgan's still working, and it's a weekday. "May I?"

Castiel stands aside. "Of course, yes. Did you just get off of work?"

Morgan nods, sitting down on the couch and kicking up his feet on the small coffee table that Castiel hardly uses. "We haven't had an active case in a while, so I think we're due. I thought it better to get this conversation over with. I heard you spoke with the investigators, what did you say?"

Castiel sits down and explains both his plan and how the interview went, in brief terms. He thinks he did well enough to pass. By the time he's done, there's a knock on the door. This time it is pizza, and Castiel hands the other large box to Morgan. He'd done it for leftovers – he's still not much of a cook – but it's useful now.

Morgan eats his pizza in silence, apparently contemplating Castiel's plan. Then, "I didn't think you would give up."

"I didn't give up," Castiel replies a little tartly, putting down an extremely cheesy slice. "I had a strategic retreat and changed the field of battle."

"Hotch will never let you back into the BAU. You know that."

Castiel sighs, rubbing his eyes. "Yes, of course I know that." He swallows past a tight throat. "That was … it was never going to work. Hotch knows too much, even if he can't prove it."

"What about the others?"

Castiel looks away. "I had planned on contacting them all privately and seeing who would like to remain friends. Though considering I accused Hotch of not doing his job correctly, I'm not sure how many will." Penelope won't be able to handle the betrayal, he knows that. She's far too emotional, even if she's overall a sweet person. The others probably can. If Morgan didn't know the truth, he'd probably have marked him as a friendship lost. JJ and Reid will probably maintain contact, JJ less than Reid. Rossi is a tossup.

Morgan flips the pizza box closed. "I'll talk to them."

"You sure?" Castiel asks.

"Yeah. It's not like that discussion wouldn't have happened anyway."

Castiel acknowledges the truth of that comment with a nod.

"Your brother called me, by the way. He wants an agent on your door. Oh, and a kill order for Dean. He seems to think we work for M, not the FBI."

"One time he seriously asked about our filing system. As in, what we do with the letter x."

Morgan laughs.

Castiel smiles, and a comfortable silence settles as they finish off the pizza.

"Have you seen Dean yet?"

Castiel shakes his head. "And I won't until this whole thing is settled, one way or another."

"I hope it works," Morgan says softly. There's a deep concern in his eyes, something that hasn't totally left him since he learned the truth about the supernatural. Like seeing that truth has opened him to others, to the realization of how broken Castiel was. Sometimes Castiel thinks Morgan still sees him that way.

Castiel exhales. "So do I."

He wants this whole mess to be over.

* * *

Castiel's doing the very, very mundane task of paying his bills when a window pops up on one of his credit card sites. He freezes, but this time he doesn't go for his gun.

 _GIAL: We need to talk._

Charlie. It has to be. Or a trap, but no one knows about that particular conversation, as far as he knows, and a lot of other things would have happened first if someone did. He hesitantly types, _Guest: Okay. C, I take it?_

 _Guest: Will you help me?_

 _GIAL: I already laid the trail for you. But I won't do anything to help him. I can't. The very thought of what he is, of what he's done – he's a fucking rapist – I can't help him._

Castiel pauses, fingers poised over the keyboard. _Guest: I understand._

 _GIAL: He said you're together now. Is that true?_

Guest: Yes.

Castiel decides not to qualify it. Keep it simple.

 _GIAL: Why? How could you?_ It doesn't sound like an accusation, though of course it's hard to tell over text. It sounds like a genuine question, formed out of confusion. She wouldn't be the only one.

 _Guest: Because I know him. Because for all that he has done monstrous things, I don't think he's a monster, and he's trying so hard to be a better person. I have you to thank for that, at least partially. He needed to have consequences, and you gave him that._

 _GIAL: I didn't know him. I didn't know him at all._

 _Guest: You're one of the few people I know of who does. What he did to me isn't all of him, or I'd have left him in prison._

 _GIAL: He's a hunter, that's why?_

Castiel bites his lip. _Guest: I love him, and I love him partially because he is a hunter, and for lots of other reasons._

 _GIAL: I'll do this for you. I owe you. But after this, we're done. I can't have anything to do with Dean. He's a monster._

 _Guest: I understand._

She can't have anything to do with Dean, and if Castiel is with Dean, then anything that helps Castiel in turns aids Dean. He gets that. _Thank you._

 _GIAL: If you ever need out, send an email to customer service titled Charlie is Awesome. I'll find it. Because he terrifies me, and I think one day he'll terrify you._

Castiel's eyes sting. He doesn't believe that will ever be necessary, he wouldn't be with Dean otherwise, but the offer is a caring one. _Guest: Thank you. If I ever need that, I will._

 _GIAL: Just remember, for your own sake, our actions make us who we are._

 _GIAL has signed out. Was this customer service interaction helpful? Take a survey!_

Castiel doesn't bother to finish paying his bill. He closes the laptop and stares out the window.

* * *

Three weeks later, Castiel's case is discontinued out of lack of evidence to move forward.

He cries, half out of relief and half out of regret.

* * *

Castiel ends up walking to meet Dean. Dean texted Castiel the address of a fairly mediocre and bland looking hotel – slightly more expensive than what Dean usually pays for, but not by a lot. Castiel predicts decent sheets, but stains on the wall. He doesn't see any security cameras on his way around the back of the two story building. He knocks on the first door he sees.

Dean opens it, and then smiles, looking a bit jittery. "Hey, Cas. Um, come in?"

Castiel comes in and offers Dean a quick kiss.

"Are you sure it's safe to meet here?" Dean asks nervously, shutting the door behind him. "So soon after, I mean?"

"My building had a break in the water main. My neighbor took Aditi to his daughter's house. I'm in a hotel with no security cameras. We'll be fine for the next two nights." Castiel tilts his head, eyeing the hotel room – it's as expected – before gazing at Dean. "Something wrong?"

Dean shakes his head. "I got Chinese takeout. Tell me what happened?"

Crammed around the small table and over fried rice and broccoli with beef, Castiel explains the fallout of his plan. It worked, more or less. Hotch had a very brief conversation with Castiel about him being reassigned. It was purely professional, and Hotch made no mention of anything Castiel said in the interview to the internal investigators. He didn't even comment on the investigation at all. He simply said Castiel was no longer a good fit, and he would leave Castiel with a glowing recommendation. The blank expression on his face kept Castiel from asking anything.

A recommendation, for what little that means. The internal review is on record, even if it amounted to nothing.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean says. He stares down at his half-eaten meal.

"I'm a floater for now, until I got properly reassigned," Castiel says. "But it will happen. There's not always a lot of love between departments in the FBI, so losing the respect of one doesn't necessarily mean the others will blacklist me. It'll just take time." He pauses. "You might not be meeting me in Virginia next time, Dean."

"You'll have to move?" Dean says, gaze shooting upwards to meet Castiel's.

"I like my apartment fine, but I'm not married to it. Though I'll miss Mr. Gunwich." The elderly man who takes care of Aditi when Castiel is away. "Most of the FBI isn't run out of DC, but local offices."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

"How are you doing?" Castiel asks. He thinks a moment about the expression on Dean's face when he answered the door. "You seemed surprised to see me."

A flash of guilt shows in Dean's eyes.

"You didn't think I would show up," Castiel says, realizing it as the words come out of his mouth.

"Well. You said I had trust issues, didn't you?"

"Dean –"

"No, seriously. I fucked up your life. In so many ways I can't even keep count, but you lost your position at the BAU because of me and now you're a floater until some department decides you aren't spoiled goods. Am I right?"

Castiel sighs. "I'll be assigned somewhere eventually. I'm good at what I do, even if I have a black mark on my record now."

"You didn't try to tell me I didn't fuck up your life."

"Do you want me to deny it?" Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow. "In the purest sense, it is true."

Dean slumps, eyes red. He pokes at a piece of beef with a plastic fork.

Castiel takes his hand, putting the fork away. "You're responsible, yes. I choose not to blame you for it, or use it as justification for anger. It's not a simple issue, not to me."

Dean runs his free hand through his hair. "So, yeah. That's why I was surprised to see you. I figured once you were away for a while, well, you'd remember how good things were without me –"

"Just because I can enjoy life without you doesn't mean I want to, Dean. I love you. I love being with you."

Dean stares at him for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I either have to believe you or not," Dean says bluntly. "So, um, I'm believing you." He smiles, a very fractured one.

Castiel strokes Dean's knuckles, scarred from fistfights. "Thank you."

Dean relaxes a little.

"Why didn't you tell me this at first?" Castiel asks.

"I didn't want to put my shit on you when you've already got so much shit to deal with," Dean says, shrugging.

"I want us to – put our shit on each other, Dean. You can delay it if you want, but I want you to open up to me eventually. Not hide it. That won't help either of us. Our time is precious, Dean, at least in this life."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, I get that." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "So what do you want to do tonight?"

"Relax?" Castiel suggests. He offers tentatively, "Cuddle?"

Dean stares at him for a moment, then points at him. "But you can never tell anyone."

Castiel smirks, then admits honestly, "Who would I tell?"

Dean makes a face and flops on the queen bed, legs and arm spread wide. "Come here."

Instead of curling up by his side, Castiel settles on his knees between Dean's legs and then crawls over him, his hands braced on either side of Dean's head. He stays there, watching Dean. His eyes are dark in this light, but his freckles are showing more than usual. There's only two lamps in the room, and the light cuts across Dean's face such that it shows the planes of his face in sharp contrast.

Dean's smile is soft. "Hey."

Castiel kisses him, light at first. The issue of sex is still a loaded one. Castiel was able to have sex with Dean twice without any flashbacks or adverse emotional reactions, but that doesn't mean that every time they're together in the future will be so easy. Castiel imagines there's a lot of minefields that even he doesn't know are there. He and Dean are just going to have stomp past them and take them as they come. It'll be difficult, Castiel knows that, but he thinks it will be worth it, and he believes that Dean does, too.

For all of Dean's uncertainty, he kisses Castiel back without holding back. His hands curl around Castiel's jaw, then stroke up into his hair, pulling lightly at the ends. Then his hand smoothes down Castiel's front, untucking his shirt. Dean caresses Castiel's stomach with the back of his knuckles, a barely there touch that is as much gentle as it is questioning.

Castiel wants to drop down, press his front against Dean's, see if he's hard.

So he does.

Dean's cock is a bulge in his pants, thickening even as Castiel rolls his hips against it, his own erection hard and heavy.

"You want to fuck me?" Dean asks, breaking away for a moment, lips wet.

Castiel bites his lip, then says, "I was thinking you could fuck me."

Dean's hands still on Castiel's waist. "Are you sure? You're still, you know, twitchy sometimes. And that, well, that's guaranteed to make you a bit twitchy."

That's an understatement. Dean means Castiel might panic or have a flashback to when that kind of sex had a different kind of undercurrent to it. "Yes. I want to try, at least." He pauses. "I enjoyed it. I want to enjoy it again, without any of the pain it had before."

Dean doesn't look convinced. Neither is his cock; he's softening.

"I need this," Castiel says, an echo to Dean more than a month ago.

"Not to quote you, but are you sure you're doing this for the right reasons?"

Castiel considers that instead of snapping off an answer. "I think so. I don't want to be afraid of anything with you, Dean."

Dean takes a few deep breaths. "All right." He pushes Castiel lightly, until Castiel gets the hint and climbs off of him. He rises to his feet and goes to the duffel on the floor, digging around until he comes back with a bottle of massage oil and a tube of lube. He looks at Castiel and licks his lips.

Castiel pulls off his shirt, and Dean takes a step forward. Castiel shoves his jeans and boxers down to his ankles in one movement before taking his cock in hand and stroking. Dean sways a little, and then almost jolts forward to land a kiss on Castiel's lips, then kissing his neck and his chest, poking at a nipple with his tongue.

Castiel squirms. "How do you –"

"On your back," Dean says. "On your back? I want to get you relaxed first," he adds.

Not dive right in. Castiel glances at the massage oil, nods, and kicks away his jeans and boxers. He lays on his stomach, and then looks over his shoulder.

"Your ass," Dean says, "is magnificent."

"All that running," Castiel says dryly.

"Hmm," is Dean's response. He crawls over Castiel and places a hand on the center of Castiel's back, urging him back down.

Castiel obeys.

A moment later, slick hands touch his lower back, smoothing down his sides before moving upward and applying firm pressure. Dean's not a skilled masseuse, but he's got good, strong hands and the patience to go slow. Castiel doesn't know how much time passes, but Dean gets him incredibly relaxed. He feels like his muscles have turned to goo, hurting pleasantly in the way a good workout does.

Then Dean's hands move down to Castiel's ass. With just the oil, at first, until Castiel relaxes again.

"Turn around?" Dean asks. "Face to face?"

"Hm, all right," Castiel says. He waits for Dean to get off of him, and then flips over. He's still quite hard.

Dean's mouth quirks into an odd smile. "Well, that's encouraging."

"It should be," Castiel replies, tilting his head and then spreading his legs.

Dean gets between them, hand wet. He jerks Castiel off first, long strokes from the base of his cock to the head, until Castiel is squirming. Then he trails fingers down Castiel's balls, to where his groin meets his thigh, and then down again, tracing the skin right above his hole. He looks at Castiel's face, watchful. "Good?"

Castiel nods. "Keep going." He feels – okay. Good. Not panicking, certainly. There's a bit of fear in him somewhere, but it feels manageable.

Dean keeps going. One finger, circling his hole for far too long before he finally pushes in. Castiel inhales sharply and Dean freezes, but Castiel shakes his head silently and tilts his hips upwards, exposing more of himself. Dean's finger goes in deeper, slow and easy, in and out. A second finger joins the first, Dean still watching Castiel intently for any negative reaction.

So far, so good.

Castiel's fingered himself since his escape, though it took more than a year for him to get to that point. He's also fucked himself with a dildo, though only a couple of times, excluding the one where he called up and screamed at Dean afterward, which was hardly enjoyable. So he doesn't entirely associate this with Dean anymore, but also with self-pleasure.

Dean is far more knowing in how he goes about it, though. Castiel is always awkward, trying to find the right angle, experimenting. Like a teenager learning about sex for the first time. But Dean hits Castiel's prostate almost immediately, and Castiel jerks, his cock twitching as he moans.

A look of desire finally overwhelms the look of worry on Dean's face.

Three fingers, it feels like. Dean leans over and takes Castiel's cock into his mouth, sucking at the tip and jabbing his tongue in the slit to the same rhythm as his fingers work into Castiel's ass.

Castiel squirms, on the verge of coming. "Hurry up," he snaps.

"What, I can't enjoy you?"

"I want to enjoy your cock before I come," Castiel replies.

Dean stops what he's doing, panting for a few moments before meeting Castiel's gaze. "Fuck, Cas."

It's an old joke, but, "That's the idea," Castiel says.

Dean laughs. He tests Castiel's ass one more time, hitting Castiel's prostate in the process, and then strokes his cock before wiping his wet hand on the sheets. He watches Castiel the entire time. Castiel helps Dean get him into position, back curled up, legs folded over Dean's arms. Then Dean settles on his knees, and gently moves his hips forward.

His cock presses at Castiel's ass, then right at the entrance, and then with hardly a pause he slips inside.

Castiel freezes. Dean feels thick and long inside of him, Dean's body a heavy weight holding Castiel in place. Castiel is surrounded by Dean's scent, by Dean's sweaty skin touching his, and then by memory – Dean fucking Castiel for the first time, losing his control over his possessiveness, and Castiel, taking it and liking it because Dean wanted him so badly, so terribly, and Castiel can smell the freshener Dean used on the sheets in the bunker, he can smell that brand of lube that Dean used back then, he can even smell the burger Dean had had before hand.

They had Chinese today.

Unlike his mind, flashing through the past, Castiel's body is frozen.

"Cas? Cas?" Then, more panicked, "Cas?" Then he tries to pull out.

Castiel wraps his legs around Dean, stopping him more with the intent than with force. He's hyperventilating. His limbs are shaking, hardly strong enough to hold himself up, much less hold Dean in, but Dean stops.

"Cas, stay with me, okay?" Dean says fiercely. "Stay with me. I'm going to pull out, and we're going to relax, okay?"

"No! I don't want to stop, I'm not letting – I'm not scared," Castiel says, and knows it's a lie.

Dean seems to see it, fear and worry in a strange battle on his face.

They're still locked together, though Dean's cock is starting to soften. In some dim part of his mind, Castiel can tell Dean is straining to hold himself still – either from moving forward, fucking, or from fleeing, he can't tell. Maybe a mix of the two.

"Please, I don't want to stop." His heart is racing. His palms are sweating. He wants to run. He doesn't know if it's just fear or the instinct to survive.

"Okay," Dean says, very quietly. Then Dean's words come breathless and true. "Listen to me, Cas. Castiel. I love you. And I'm not the same person, the same person who was the first for you. I'm the Dean that you wanted, the Dean that you helped me become. I'll let you go, if you want me to. I'll love you, forever, and stay away. I'll be whatever you need, even if it takes me time to change myself to that guy. I want you. But I want you to want me, because none of this is good or right if you don't. Tell me to stop, Cas, and I will, because I love you more than I love what you do for me, what you are for me."

Castiel stills, holding his breath.

"Do you want me to stop?" Dean asks. Then, as if understanding Castiel's stubbornness, "Do you need me to stop?"

Castiel shakes his head, muscles relaxing by degrees. His mind doesn't drift, stays rooted in the present.

"You don't have to force this. I'm staying put because you told me to, but you don't –"

"I know," Castiel finally breaks in. "Please, I don't want this to control me. I don't want the past to control us."

Dean looks like he wants to argue, a thousand words on the tip of his tongue. But all he says is, "I'll do whatever you want, okay? Remember that."

Castiel nods. "Fuck me. Slow, okay? Keep going slow?"

Misgivings clear on his face, Dean takes a deep breath and withdraws an inch or two. Then presses forward, as slow as a meandering walk. Then he repeats the motion, his cock barely hard enough to stay inside of Castiel.

Castiel takes his own cock into his hand, realizing he'd gone soft as well. He strokes to the gentle rhythm of Dean's thrusts, and finally hardens. As he does, he can feel Dean's cock getting hard again as well, the pressure becoming more intense and more pleasurable. Deep thrusts hit Castiel's prostate, making him moan. Dean echoes it a moment later.

"Good?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Castiel says, and thinks this time he means it. He feels … better. More in control. In the present, with Dean doing this so gently, like Castiel will break if he goes harder. Maybe Castiel would, he doesn't know. That simmering fear Castiel had thought manageable wasn't manageable at all, and only Dean's words saved Castiel from forcing himself or forcing Dean – or just plain taking the pleasure of it away from them both.

Castiel comes first, to his own hand. Dean a few minutes later, struggling to finish.

Instinctively, because Castiel doesn't ask, Dean curls around Castiel on the bed, stroking his back in soothing patterns.

"I'm sorry," Castiel finally says.

Dean nuzzles the back of his neck. "Don't be sorry. Just don't push yourself, okay? Or me?"

Castiel swallows past a dry throat. "All right."

Sometimes Castiel wishes … sometimes he tries to pretend the past doesn't exist. Didn't happen. It seems easier to be with Dean that way, but those minefields don't obey that desire to forget the past. Castiel has to deal with it, to remember it and be able to contrast it with the present. Or he'll fall into old patterns of thinking, the pattern that allowed him to survive Dean and the isolation of the bunker. But that's not what he wants; he wants everything pure and free and good.

He can only do that, he must remember, by acknowledging the past, not by fleeing from it. Maybe that's where the instinct to run has been – wanting to run from the past, not from the present. Castiel needs to stand firm, unyielding as an oak tree, in the current moment.

Every moment he spends with Dean is a learning one. Has to be. Doesn't mean he can't enjoy some of them, though. He shifts a little, backwards into Dean's hold.

In the dark, Dean's voice breaks the silence. "For the record. That was pretty horrible sex."

Castiel can't help it – he starts laughing, his body shaking with the force of it. "Lesson learned. Don't force the issue."

Dean kisses the back of Castiel's neck. "Hey, we're both learning, right?"

"Hm, yes," Castiel says. "Now go to sleep."

* * *

Dean opens the door. "Hey," he says, starting to smile.

* * *

The door swings open before Castiel knocks.

"Pizza!" Dean says, holding up a steaming hot box, relief edging his grin.

* * *

And lastly, just a simple kiss in the doorway. "I've been expecting you," Dean says.

* * *

Every time Castiel comes back to Dean, that effort to consciously trust Castiel becomes a little more natural. A little more engrained. Dean relaxes.

Only once does he greet Castiel tense. Anna's missing, he says. Nothing to do but wait to hear back from her. It's been two months since Dean attempted to contact her last, and it's never taken her this long to get back to him.

"But for now," Dean says, "cake?"

"Cheesecake?" Castiel says hopefully.

"Of course!"

* * *

Castiel opens the door. "JJ," he says, surprised. "I wasn't expecting you."

"At all, I expect," she says, offering a smile.

Castiel manages to hide his wince. "Well, the thought occurred to me, yes."

"Can I come in?"

"Oh, of course." Castiel steps aside and then closes the door behind her. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting to entertain. You can take that box over there as a seat, if you like, it's sturdy."

JJ takes the offered box and sits gingerly. Castiel sits on the floor, cross-legged, looking up at JJ. He had thought it likely but not certain that JJ wouldn't cut him off, and not necessarily even as a function of her trust in him, but because it's in her nature to be inquisitive, caring, and observant. She would want to observe him, if nothing else.

JJ looks away, at his nearly empty apartment. There's only a few dozen boxes left. All the furniture is gone. He actually bothered to keep it this time, if only because he didn't want to go the hassle of buying new furniture. He doesn't want that first year of feeling like he's living a skeleton of a life. The cost of moving is higher than usual, but it's also less stressful, so Castiel can't bring himself to care.

"You know, I liked you immediately," JJ says.

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I didn't start out as a profiler in the BAU, but you never cared about that. You respected me from the first moment we met." JJ smiles, fondly this time.

"You knew a hell of a lot more than I did," Castiel says wryly. "I don't like to make enemies of coworkers, either."

"Or you're just a good guy," she offers.

Castiel looks down. "Yes, perhaps."

"You were well before Agent Greenaway, but you looked at her file, didn't you?"

The agent who supposedly murdered someone in a fashion that left no evidence and left, very abruptly. Castiel knew about her case, looked at what was publicly available after he was formally invited to the BAU. It pays to know the history of any unit. Why JJ would bring her up, though, he doesn't know. It's probably not good. "Yes."

JJ joins her hands in her lap, thoughtful. "In a way … in hindsight, it was easy to see her unraveling. The trauma of what happened to her changed her way of thinking, of coping with the job. And she never recovered from that." She pauses. "Sometimes, I see her in you."

"I'm not snapping, JJ."

"No," she agrees, wry and worried, "but you are different. The Castiel that I knew would never have tried to throw Hotch under the bus."

"He's lost perspective. And maybe I never had it, JJ, but he doesn't have it now." Castiel says it firmly, because he has no choice but to double down on everything he said in that interview. He knew that the moment he began planning it with Dean, that he was burning bridges between him and his friends, his colleagues. Sacrificing one part of his life to save the rest.

"You think that's why he's suspicious about you? I didn't see everything he submitted, but you've been disappearing and acting –"

"JJ, why did you come here?"

JJ takes a deep breath. "I'm your friend, and that won't change. But I'm worried, and I wanted you to know that. So if in any part of your own mind you're worried about yourself, you know you're not alone. And that we're still here for you."

Castiel's eyes sting. "I know. Reid said the same thing."

"I don't know what happened between you and Winchester, and I suspect I never can, not really. For all that we profile and understand the psychologies of victim and perpetrator, it's always just enough. Never complete."

"You don't know how true that is," Castiel says softly. "I didn't, not until – not until."

"We may not be able to understand, Castiel, but all of us are still here for whenever you want to talk."

Castiel looks away. It's a kind offer, very kind. Castiel knows he can never take her up on it, and there's some regret in that. He's told too many lies, made too many decisions that can't be reversed. "Thank you."

JJ stands. "Don't be shy, okay?"

"I won't be. Tell William I said hello."

JJ smiles, bright and genuine. Castiel's managed, somehow, to ease some fears. Maybe because he didn't protest too hard that there was nothing going on. If she suspects the same way Hotch does, that kind of response will give her hope that Castiel will come to his senses. Which of course, he won't. He can't. There are too many truths between Castiel and freedom.

JJ stands up and hugs him. Castiel returns the embrace tightly. "I'll miss you all," he says quietly.

She withdraws a little to look him in the eye. "Then don't go too far."

* * *

"Castiel! Castiel? Am I saying it right?" Mrs. Stein asks. Her carrot red hair is barely restrained in a bun, but her smile is even brighter.

"Yes, and that's no small feat," Castiel says, stepping into her home's foyer. She offers him her hand to shake, and he kisses the back of it instead.

She laughs. "My husband said you were a charmer."

"Your husband told me you liked being charmed." And that's true. Agent Stein, or Roger as he's more commonly known on the team, talks a lot about his wife and four children. Roger, for all the hours he spends at work, manages to attend soccer games, piano recitals, and all the sundry activities his children do. Agents like Castiel, who are single, tend to be more flexible, so Castiel's taken an hour here and there to cover for Roger a lot over the past five months. It took six invitations to dinner for Castiel to say yes, though.

He's been wary of making new friendships. JJ and Reid have kept in touch with him, as well as Morgan; he hasn't heard from the others.

Dean and Balthazar have been Castiel's only constants.

Consequently, he's a bit nervous to be here, trying to form another human connection. What if things go badly on this team, too? If a hunt appears, and Castiel has to take action?

Mrs. Stein looks completely relaxed, unlike Castiel. Her calm, easy attitude is somewhat catching. As she leads him to the dining room, he glances around her home.

Large, first of all. Kids toys everywhere, but not where feet step. Pictures adorn every wall, some of which are brightly colored, like a home out of a magazine. Still, this is a home, not a house. Castiel pauses by a set of pictures showing Roger and his wife at their wedding, nearly twenty years ago.

"I like that one," Mrs. Stein confides. "Roger hates that his bald spot is visible."

Castiel grins. "He doesn't have to worry about that now."

She laughs. "Dinner will be done in about ten minutes, I'm running a little late. How goes the mob hunt?"

"Well," Castiel says, which is also true. There's still significant mysteries in this particular crime families operating schema, but they've been narrowing down how the drug money is being laundered. And ultimately, it all leads back to the money. "But let's not talk about work. Where's Roger?"

"Oh, upstairs in the study. He'll be down." Mrs. Stein waves her hand. "Take a seat and relax. Or you can go bug him, he's been up there a while."

"I'll see what he's up to," Castiel says, smiling.

She grins back and disappears into the kitchen.

Two children race past Castiel without even looking at him, screaming something about stolen stuffed animals and arrest warrants. Castiel raises an eyebrow, but heads up the large staircase. He doesn't know exactly where the study is, but he'll figure it out. The house isn't _that_ big.

In the end, it only takes two wrong turns. Castiel knocks on one of the two doors to the study.

"Come in!"

Castiel enters, finding Roger sitting at an old, rickety desk that is frankly even more in danger of falling apart than the one at work. "Busy?"

Roger shakes his head. He's an older man, with just a bit of hair at the edges of his mostly bald head. He decided to marry and have kids later in life, a life which thanks to more than a dozen stakeouts Castiel knows well. He was a lawyer who went into the FBI shortly after law school, aided in his career by seven years as an accountant. Financials are actually one of the FBI's weak spots – they are always looking for new hires smart enough to decode criminal enterprises' taxes and finances. The FBI doesn't recruit, but if it did, it would need to do so at tax and accounting agencies.

Of course Roger is handy with a gun, too, or he wouldn't be chasing after an up and coming mob family in Detroit.

"So, you finally showed up, eh?" Roger asks.

"I finally agreed to show up, there's a difference," Castiel says.

"You know, just because your last team badmouthed you isn't any reason we will," Roger says, slapping a folder closed and shoving it haphazardly into a drawer. "You've done good work, even our asshole of a boss says so."

"Our asshole of a boss doesn't ever give compliments," Castiel points out, sitting in one of the chairs opposite Roger.

"But he criticizes you less!"

Castiel smothers a laugh. "What are you doing? Did you take a case file home?"

Roger sighs, and then nods. "Yeah. Something itchy in that nail salon's tax records. I can't put my finger on it, though."

"Dinner is supposed to be done soon," Castiel says, as if just making conversation. "And I haven't eaten since lunch."

"Okay, okay, I'll stop."

Dinner ends up being lasagna and about five more sides than were necessary. Roger's kids range in age from four to fourteen, and it shows in how they interact – the teenage daughter desperately trying to appear cool in front of the stranger and ignoring her brother asking about their usual swordplay, the four year old who wants to held by mommy while she eats, and the last sibling, a boy who is reading a textbook at the table while sneaking glances at Castiel.

It is strikingly, refreshingly normal. Castiel hasn't seen that in a while. He floated for almost two months before one of his current team's members left the FBI for calmer pastures. His boss, like Roger said, isn't the nicest of people, but also doesn't give a shit about Castiel's history. That has given Castiel the opportunity to excel and show that he can do the work despite the black mark on his record, and his complicated history with a serial killer.

Organized crime taskforces don't care much about serial killers, or analyzing the victim of one. It's a relief.

The entire past five months have been a relief.

Castiel's finishing off a bowl of ice cream when his cell vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out and looks, and it's his boss – Agent Anders. He answers it. "Hello?"

"Get in. Agent Simon is in the hospital, and it looks like she's been poisoned."

"What? Poisoned? I thought she was sick." Castiel tries to pull his thoughts together, ask the right questions. "Do we know who did it?"

"Take one guess, Agent Novak. Now get in so we can get this bastard, and get Agent Stein, too." Dial tone.

Roger puts down his youngest daughter. "What is it?"

"Simon," Castiel says. He looks at the three children still meandering around the table, easily in hearing distance. "You drive. I'll explain on the way."

Roger raises an eyebrow, but doesn't argue.

By the time they arrive at the hospital, cold and sterile, Agent Anders greets them with a more somber expression than usual. He speaks simply, with no emotion as he grips a cup of coffee so tightly his knuckles are white. "She didn't make it."

"Fuck," Castiel breathes out. He looks away, watching nurses and doctors walk down the hallway calmly. He finds a set of chairs for visitors and sits down, the plastic cold against his hands as he grips the seat. "How long was she sick for?"

"Two days. She assumed it was the flu, but the doctor said there was some kind of corrosive agent in her major organs, dissolving them from the inside." Anders huffs out a breath, grimacing. "Her body is being sent to the FBI coroner for analysis. But I think we know the fuckers who did this."

The Merrano family. It has to be. Who else would poison Simon? Castiel looks at Roger, mind moving to the next step. "We need a search warrant. Multiple search warrants, and quick."

"You don't think they've already destroyed the evidence?" Roger asks.

Castiel considers that. "No. I don't think so." Profiler might no longer be his job title, but it's still what he is. "The Merrano family is arrogant, and they like to take trophies of their successes. If it was them, they would have kept something. It might not be enough to convict," Castiel admits, "but they've kept something for their own gratification. They've shown that they appreciate ritual, I think that would keep to this, as well."

Agent Anders barks, "Then fucking get on it!" He stalks off, then returns to add, "Agent Meyer and I will investigate how she got poisoned. You get us fucking in to their properties." Then he leaves.

Castiel and Roger look at each other.

Roger says, "Probable cause. We go over everything, again, and no matter how unlikely a thread we submit it to a judge. Hope to get lucky."

Castiel swallows. "Go home first, see your kids. You won't be for a while."

Roger nods, wiping his face, and for once, very much looking his age.

* * *

Roger walks into the office and sits next to Castiel's desk heavily. The local FBI offices are dank, dark, and dirty. Half of the people who work here don't work out of their desks, but at their homes or out of coffee houses. It's been remarked more than once that this FBI office is in fact a storage place for files; human beings don't work here. Castiel's desk is thusly mostly empty, except file folders that he keeps going over and over, not finding new information, frantically trying to reinterpret what he has.

"No go?" Castiel asks.

Roger shakes his head, and then winces.

"Roger?"

"Headache," he answers. "Felt like shit all day, but then I was up all night." He sniffles.

"Wait, you feel sick? Not just overtired?" Castiel asks, sitting up straight.

"I don't see –" Roger stops. His eyes widen.

"Roger, I'm taking you to the hospital," Castiel says. "Now."

"I'm just tired," Roger says weakly, but there's fear in his voice.

Castiel grabs his coat and takes Roger by the arm, pushing him towards the door. "We'll let the doctors make that call, after a hundred tests."

It takes all of fifteen minutes for Castiel to convince the ER that Roger needs to be admitted immediately, citing Agent Simon's death. They have him hooked up to an IV and start taking blood within twenty. Castiel sits next to his bed while Roger tells him that he can't be poisoned, where could he be poisoned? He always eats at home, his wife is always home and they have an alarm system for when she's out with the kids, there's just no opportunity for someone to poison him.

Roger keeps coughing.

After an hour, Castiel returns to the office, telling Roger to call him if they find anything. He informs Agent Anders about Roger and that Castiel will continue working on the case.

Two hours after that, the blood tests come in.

Organ failure.

Castiel looks at Roger and says, "I'm not going to let you die." And when he sees Roger clutching his wife's hand, their two oldest children standing by and crying – old enough to know what's going on – Castiel walks outside, into the cool air of late spring.

Castiel spends five minutes getting his breathing under control. He is not going to let Roger be murdered, not like this. So he stops, get his brain back in gear, and tries to analyze the situation.

Why them first? It is possible they have someone leaking information on what their investigation is doing? What were both Agent Simon and Roger working on?

Castiel goes over Simon's desk, then Roger's. It takes nearly eight hours, but he finds the missing link: a set of warehouses is owned by a shell company connected to the Merranos. Roger was focusing on a cash transfer from the shell company to the nail salon, which the Merranos directly own. Simon was on the same path, by different means. Castiel doesn't know how anyone could have connected this, but it's the only thing he can see that connects the two agents.

Castiel gathers his evidence together and shoves his way into his boss's office, startling said boss into growling at him.

"I found something," Castiel tells him.

* * *

Finding probable cause for a warrant takes them nearly three hours, and it's sketchy at best. Anders takes it to a friendly judge with some connections to the FBI – he'll more sympathetic about Agent Simon's death and Roger's poisoning – and after another hour, they ready themselves. They were able to get warrants for three warehouses and a small business, but not the family home.

One of the lieutenants of the organization often goes to the warehouse in the downtown Detroit. That's Castiel's best guess for something useful, so that's the location they take. Agents from other cases and multiple SWAT teams are drawn from for the others, which will be hit simultaneously.

They serve the warrant. Or rather, they get a copy of a piece of paper and then break into the place with no warning.

It's empty. Almost.

Symbols cover the rusting metal walls and concrete floor. Most are spray-painted; a few look like dried blood. In the center is what Castiel recognizes as a spell circle, designed to protect the user while casting a spell. There's a small altar there, with three hex bags on it and a bowl with small bones in it.

"Holy fuck," Agent Meyer breathes.

"We'll need to take pictures of these," Castiel says, already thinking about the research he's going to have to do to see if this is legit magic. If it is – it might explain why Anders hasn't been able to find a source for the poison.

"What, to document how fucking crazy the Merranos are?" Meyer asks.

"That, and what they were attempting. If we know what they were trying to do here with this bullshit –" Castiel needs to be careful – "then we might figure out where they're headed next, once they realize this failed."

Agent Meyer gives Castiel a hard look. "Good point. I take it you can figure this out?"

"Possibly," Castiel says, while thinking, Yes. "It'll probably take some time."

"You think that's human blood?" Meyer asks.

"Might be animal," Castiel says, shrugging.

Agent Anders finishes stalking around the room and returns to the three of them. "Fucking nothing. This supernatural shit all over the place is all that's here. What the fuck were they protecting, woo woo shit?"

Castiel takes the comment seriously. "They might be psychotic."

"I thought they were already psychotic," Meyer says.

"Well, I mean crazy in the clinical sense, not the moral one."

Agent Anders snorts. "I'll get crime techs here, check the blood and check for prints."

Castiel nods. "I'll stay and supervise, unless you object. I can research what they were attempting. It might give us a clue, if they're crazy enough to believe this stuff works."

Agent Anders shakes his head. "No objection. Everybody else, find another fucking lead. We need leverage on these assholes to get a treatment, or a cure, or fucking name for the poison killing Agent Stein."

* * *

Spells.

Ink, blood, bone.

Over the eighteen months he spent as Dean's prisoner, Castiel rarely studied spell books, mainly because Dean was afraid Castiel could use them to escape. Still, in order to study the supernatural, Castiel had to study spells to some degree. He knows the basic mechanics of it. After he escaped, he did more study, but even the internet has less information than exists in the Men of Letters library. Castiel searches around for nearly two hours before he gets away long enough to email Dean digital copies of the photos the crime techs took of the warehouse.

Dean gets back to him quickly, only three hours later, with pictures of the relevant texts. Presumably he's at the bunker.

Castiel pours over the slightly grainy images. It's an old spell, from a fairly rare old book. It was originally used by witches to get revenge on those that had wronged them without it appearing to be a curse, which back in the day was rather important as they killed witches pretty summarily. It drained the subject of life and transferred it to the spellcaster. It didn't always lengthen life, but it tended to improve health. There's other little tidbits about it, but one thing sits Castiel back on his heels.

Once the spell has been cast, the only way to stop it is to the kill the caster.

The only way to save Roger's life is to find what member of the Merrano mob family did the spell, and then end his or her life.

Castiel slips his phone into his pocket and leaves the FBI office. He walks three blocks over to a coffee shop, gets a large with two shots of espresso, and then sits down to contemplate murder.

Deliberately taking a human life. Castiel never thought he'd end up here, taking the law into his own hands. Of course hunters do that, in their own way, and he's always known that his extracurricular work isn't precisely legal. But no one he killed was human. Laws didn't exist to protect or condemn those creatures that Castiel has hunted. It has been relatively easy to separate hunting from his day job.

If Roger had simply been poisoned, and Castiel shooting the poisoner in the head would save him, would Castiel do it?

It frightens him that he doesn't know the answer.

Has hunting and all the lying, all the evasions and breaking the law, finally crept into Castiel's normal world thinking? Has he grown so used to taking things into his own hands, he no longer has the same respect for the law that he had? Once he would have let a murderer go rather than break the law he serves. But this isn't a normal world issue, not quite. The question of what Castiel would do if the poisoner didn't use magic might be one Castiel can't answer, but he doesn't have to answer it.

Not yet.

He downs the last of his coffee and texts Roger's phone, which his wife has. She's been texting him updates. _How is he?_

She replies, _Awake, but only barely. The doctors don't know how long he has. Please please save him._

He stares at those last three words for a long time.

When he looks up from his now blank phone, his eyes are burning. He blinks rapidly, looks at the setting sun, and gets up to go back to the office. He barely notices Meyer saying hello and instead goes to his computer, looking over every known member of the Merrano family's crime organization. That book is rare enough that any user of it would have had to have been an experienced caster. Who among these would have the time, energy, will and personality to go looking for books of the occult?

Castiel goes through them all once and exhales sharply, frustrated. Then he goes through their records again, slower this time. Andrew Merrano is an old man, never married, three girlfriends and six children. He's been in and out of jail a few times on minor arrests, before he got smart. Street smart, anyway. Dropped out of highschool. Doesn't have a library card. No, not him.

Oldest son, a street racer who loves cars and ecstasy. No.

Other children, mixed interests, not book smart.

Top lieutenants, most of them drug dealers or former drug dealers who went 'clean' to run laundering businesses.

Only one of them disappeared for three years. Went completely off grid. Weston Bower. A degree in history, no family, a fetish for knives and ritualistic behavior – he once attacked an ex and left a bloody ritual of her dog.

He fits. He fits.

But Castiel needs more than that. He needs proof. Especially if he – if he does take that final step and becomes a murderer, no matter how good-intended of one he may be. Can he –

No. Dither later. Confirm facts first.

What he has is enough to get the team on Bower's tail, that's true. But once focus is put on Bower, Castiel will lose both the opportunity to confirm Bower is the spell caster and the opportunity to do something about it.

Castiel sits, thinking.

There's a way to tell if someone is using magic. The spell used on Roger is active, draining him right now.

Castiel looks up and finds Agent Meyer still at his desk, staring blankly for a few moments before visibly shaking himself. "I'll be back, okay? Going to follow a lead," Castiel says.

Meyer nods without looking up. "We'll get these bastards."

Castiel stops at home first. His apartment is on the third floor of an old, weathered building, and the elevator is broken again so he ends up sprinting up the steps. Once he locks the door behind him, he grabs the rug in his bedroom and flips it up. To anyone else, all they'd see is a wood floor, but Castiel – one weekend – very carefully sawed into the floor, reaching into the floorboards, and made a not-so-little hiding spot. In a modern building it would never have worked, and that's one of the reasons Castiel chose this place: he looked at the blueprints. The hiding spot contains most of his spell ingredients – the weird stuff that isn't easily explained.

He gets out what he needs, rechecks the spell, and then puts the spell together into a little bottle, which he slips into a pocket. He looks around his apartment, suddenly able to see the wards he placed on the walls and floors, glowing slightly yellow. He blinks rapidly, but it doesn't go away.

"All right," he whispers to himself, and heads out.

A sign proclaims 1 DOLLAR LAUNDRY. It's dusk, and half of the lights in the sign are out, making a mishmash of letters. Castiel pulls into the parking lot, and sits there for several long minutes. Then he goes inside.

Weston Bower is in the back, at a desk. Castiel only gets close enough to see him – to see the yellow glow that surrounds him – and then he turns around. He gets back into his car and grips the steering wheel.

He knows who to kill.

Castiel jumps when a hand hits the hood of his car. He looks up, and Weston Bower smiles at him. "Hey, fucker," he says, loud enough that Castiel can hear him through the closed windows and doors. "What's the FBI's interest in a little old laundrymat?"

Castiel stares at him, his heart pounding.

Bower moves forward, a slice of the fading light landing on his arm – and he hisses, pulling back.

Wait.

"Nothing," Castiel says, almost to himself, and turns the ignition. "Nothing at all." And he backs up, turns, and leaves the parking lot, Bower glowering. Standing in the shade.

It might be nothing. But Castiel doesn't think it is.

He's gone over Bower's history enough he doesn't need to review the file. Those three years line up with when the vampire organization was active. Still, it's insane to think that case, that one case, would spread so far and wide and interact with Castiel, again and again. Like fate.

Castiel's never been fond of fate, ever since Dean told him of his.

When he pulls into his apartment complex, his phone buzzes.

 _Roger slipped into a coma._

Castiel doesn't have time. He just doesn't have time.

Bower may be a vampire, or he may not be. A split second reaction to sunlight is hardly definitive. He wishes he knew the truth, for certain, but he doesn't have the time to confirm it. Roger is dying. He most likely has hours left. Perhaps less than that. And even before there was the possibility of Bower being a vampire, Castiel was seriously considering murdering him.

Castiel takes out his FBI credential and stares at it.

He took an oath when he joined the FBI. _I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter._ He's about to break that faith. Because he doesn't think he can just let Roger die, not when he knows the cure. Perhaps he has gone off the rails for good this time; perhaps he is no longer worthy of his gun and badge. But this is a decision he must make, and only he can make it.

He thinks about Dean for a moment. Dean would offer to do it himself, take some of the burden off of Castiel, but an order to murder is the same as committing the act, in the end.

No time.

Castiel goes to his apartment and gets out ten large, black trash bags and a jug of bleach. He calls in sick. He straps a machete to his back, under his jacket. Puts on gloves. He'll need to dispose of the body. Lake St. Clair isn't deep enough, so that leaves destruction of evidence and burial as being the best option. He doesn't have the resources to cut up the body, burn it, or dissolve it – at least not without prep, which he doesn't have time for.

He leaves his phone on his side table.

He parks five blocks away and walks. Bower is there, at the laundromat. Castiel watches from a safe distance as he speaks to another employee, then heads out. He doesn't go for a car, instead walking down the street. Castiel has always memorized any city he's lived in, so he ducks into an alleyway and cuts through a block in order to cut Bower off.

It's dark now, and they aren't in a good part of Detroit, so Castiel isn't super concerned with being spotted. He follows Bower until another handy abandoned building comes into view.

He walks up to Bower.

Bower turns, grins with a glint of teeth, and says, "Come to arrest me, fed?"

Castiel stops, breathing lowly. He doesn't answer, waits for Bower to come to a decision.

"Go ahead and arrest me. What are they going to do, accuse me of witchcraft?" Bower laughs. "Not very progressive."

"Is that what you did, witchcraft?" Castiel asks, expressionless.

Bower chomps down. "Got a taste for blood these days. But why take blood when I take life more directly? Even tastes better. That's something the others didn't get, so small minded. But of course you don't believe me. Arrest me, agent, and your friend will still die."

Yes. That would be best. Handcuff him first. "You're under arrest," Castiel says, and for the first time in his life, he's lying as he says those words.

Bower smirks and holds out his hands. Castiel has his handcuffs – habit, even though he switched out his FBI-issued weapon for another – and he gets them out mechanically, the cold of the metal matching the way he feels. Bower lets him snap them on his wrists, tight.

"Someone's pissed," Bower sing-songs. "Whatchya gonna do it about it, _agent?_ "

Castiel takes Bower's upper arm, pulls him sideways, and then kicks in a boarded up doorway.

"What the fuck?" Bower yells.

Bower's moment of shock is enough for Castiel to shove him inside. He pulls his gun – a few shots fired out here won't even get a police call – and aims center mass. Bang. Bang. Bower falls, blood splattering.

Then Bower takes a deep, heaving breath, and snarls. "Gonna have to do better than that," he says, and snaps the handcuffs in two.

Confirmation. Thank God.

How Bower came to be here, in Detroit, after the vampire organization fell to pieces – dead pieces, killed by Dean and other hunters – is still a mystery. Why he chose Simon and Roger. How he knew they were onto a key part of Bower's life. But it doesn't matter, not really. Roger is dying.

Roger is dying.

The machete strapped to Castiel's back slides out of its sheathe like butter. Castiel practiced with it a hundred times with Dean. He knows how to use it.

Bower's eyes widen as he finally, finally realizes that Castiel isn't just a federal agent. He scrambles backward, and Castiel follows.

Hit, dodge, reflect, hit.

Bower's head comes clean off his shoulders, Castiel putting every muscle in his body behind the blow to sever Bower's spine.

Bower's body lies there, headless, bloody, a mess. Castiel is covered in his blood. Castiel checks his hands first for injuries, but finds only a bruise. No cuts. He takes off his gloves, throws them onto the ground, and then checks the rest of himself. He can't leave anything behind.

He'll have to burn everything.

Castiel stares at the floor. Wet, red, glistening.

He's cold as he gathers together anything that could contain Castiel's DNA. He's cold as he brings his car around and dumps the body in the trunk, lined with black trash bags. He's even cold as he sets the abandoned building on fire, destroying the murder site.

The air is cold when Castiel drives almost nine hours out, the body is in the trunk cooling, swelling, bowels released. Castiel's hands are cold when he digs six feet into the ground. Once the lugs the body into the hole, he douses it with gasoline and salt, and then sets it alight. It's eerily familiar the one salt and burn he went on with Dean. He lets it burn for nearly an hour before he begins shoveling dirt back over the body.

The water is cold when he takes his car to wash and does a thorough detail, inside and out, for any missing droplets of blood. He ends up removing the carpet from the trunk entirely, to burn later.

He's freezing, twenty hours later with no sleep, as he goes home and curls under all his covers, knowing he's done something he can never take back.

He calls Dean, shaking, staring at his clean hands.

 _"Cas?"_

"I need you," is all he says.

 _"Then I'm on my way. A hotel or –"_

"Here." Castiel suddenly, desperately wants Dean in his bed. Not in some random, faceless place, but his home. "I know it's dangerous, but here."

 _"Eight hours,"_ Dean says.

Castiel hangs up.

Castiel stares outside from his bed, his phone in his hand. After a few hours, reaching into the early morning, he receives a text from Roger's phone. Roger woke up. The doctors say he'll be okay.

A shiver of warmth works through him.

A knock on the door startles him a few hours after that. Castiel throws off his covers, shocked by how cold it is without them, and then goes to his door. He checks the peephole, but it's Dean. He opens the door quickly, barely catching the look of concern on Dean's face before he grabs Dean's arm and yanks him inside.

Dean's hands go to his shoulders, steadying. "Cas, what happened? Did you kill that guy?"

Castiel takes a deep breath and meets Dean's gaze. "I murdered him."

Dean's lips purse. "I kinda doubt that. Here, you're shivering." He pulls Castiel close, hugging him. "Where's your thermostat? It's freezing in here."

"Uh, living room?" Castiel can't even remember at this point.

Dean ducks away from Castiel for less than a minute, cranking up the heat, and then returning to Castiel's side. He sits Castiel on his couch, and pulls Castiel to his chest. Castiel goes with it, immeasurably comforted. He says into Castiel's hair, "You're not a murderer, Cas."

Castiel sits up straight, breaking free of Dean. "Of course I am! I deliberately and with forethought went to kill him, did it, and covered it up. First degree murder, Dean." He stares right at Dean, as if that will help make his point.

It garners him nothing more than a raised eyebrow. "Well, yeah, but that's not my point. He was basically holding a gun to your friend's head, right? Doesn't matter he was doing it with magic and not a gun. You acted in defense of another, that's not murder."

It feels wrong. It feels wrong for Dean to say that, but he's not sure how to counter the argument. "He was a vampire."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, then it's doubly not murder."

"I made the decision to kill him believing he was human, Dean. And I – I don't know what's happened to me, that I was able to do that. Before, I'd never have been able to do that, to actually plan to kill someone. Anyone. I've seen the most horrific human monsters, Dean, and I never really, deep down wanted or intended to kill them in cold blood." He swallows. "I don't know if I'm even fit for this job anymore."

Dean runs a hand through Castiel's hair. "Of course you are. You're good at what you do. Like I said, he was holding a gun to your friend's head. FBI says that's homicide, but not murder, right?"

It does. "It's not the same."

"It is the same. If the world knew about the supernatural, it'd be the same."

Castiel closes his eyes and puts his hands over his face, hiding, brushing off Dean's touch in the process. "I feel like I'm not – not a real cop anymore. Not a good one, anyway."

Dean's pause is thoughtful. "What do you mean?"

Castiel opens his eyes, but doesn't look directly at Dean. "I've been breaking the law for a while now. Not just about you, but the hunts I take while on the job – breaking into places, destroying property. And I know hunters don't have a choice, because the world doesn't know the necessity of their work, but I feel like I've gotten too used to just taking things into my own hands. Being judge and jury and executioner."

"Monsters don't get equal treatment under the law. Not even Sammy argued that," Dean says, smiling a little.

Castiel returns it. "I know. But the mental process … I wonder if I'm losing my ability to stay objective in my day job."

"Never had one myself, not for any real length of time, so I don't know, Cas. But I guess, does it matter? This was a hunt, even if we're the only people that know that."

Castiel doesn't answer.

"I know you're hurting," Dean says gently. "But you did the right thing. What I'd do."

"Oh, and your ethics are so robust," Castiel snaps, rubbing his face. Then, when the combination of anger and self disgust passes, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

Dean looks at him silently, not angry.

"I meant that a little," Castiel admits.

"You're not the first person to think so," Dean says wryly. "No, I'm not, not when it comes to people I love."

For some reason, that sets Castiel back on his mental heels. "You'd love me no matter what I do, won't you?" Dean loved Sam through abandonment and addiction to demon blood and his father telling him he'd have to kill Sam. Castiel supposes Dean will do no less for him.

"'Course, Cas. Always."

Castiel takes Dean's hand and kisses it. "Take me to bed."

Dean smiles, gentle, and does.

* * *

Dean leaves before morning.

Castiel erases the security footage from that day – and the preceding few weeks, as if just clearing it out – and goes into work. Everyone is happy and relieved that Roger is going to make it. And no one has pegged onto the fact that Weston Bower is missing.

They spend the next six weeks trying to catch who poisoned Roger. Castiel submits a report about the spell work in the warehouse. It's as accurate as he can make it, because he doesn't want to be caught lying, even if – if someone connects the spell and Castiel believing in the supernatural to Bower's disappearance – it ruins him later. Five weeks in, one of Bower's associates reports him missing. That information gets to the FBI taskforce quickly, and Castiel is assigned to investigating the disappearance of a man he murdered, along with Agent Meyer. The going theory is that Bower took the action against the taskforce without getting his boss's approval, ending in his own murder.

It's darkly amusing and painful at the same time. Castiel learns more about Weston Bower than he knew when he took his life, like the fact that his father beat him, and he has a three year old daughter that he took off on before she was even born. He's back due four years of child support. Castiel wonders if the mother is relieved he's missing. If she'll be relieved when she knows he's gone.

Takes seven years to be declared dead, unless someone goes to a great deal of effort to try to prove it earlier.

Will Castiel's crime remain hidden that long?

It is a crime, he thinks. If only because he was willing to do it when he thought Bower was human. Dean's argument that he acted in defense of another, making it not murder, is one that Castiel hasn't been able to refute. And yet, he feels like it's not enough.

The past six weeks have been hard. Only the fact that everyone is exhausted keeps Castiel's behavior from being noticed.

It's after six, today. Castiel is tempted to go straight home, fall into bed, but he'd promised Roger he'd stop by and let him know how the investigation is going. Roger hasn't gone back to work yet.

The gleaming white door of Roger's house makes Castiel's tired eyes blink. Then he knocks.

Mrs. Stein answers. She offers him a brilliant smile. The circles he'd seen under her eyes, a match to the despair on her face, is gone. Roger is recovering well. Her husband will live. Castiel has to remember that. She says, "He's upstairs, in his office."

Castiel steps in. "You allow that?"

"It's been six weeks, so yes," she says, "but not all day. Organ failure isn't an instantaneous recovery."

"No, I imagine not."

"Go on," she says, pointing at the stairs and then returning to the kitchen.

Castiel looks at all the family photos in the stair well and in the hallway as he goes. It's reassuring. No, that's not quite right; a salve for a guilty conscience, is what that is.

Roger's office is as warm as the rest of the house. Roger is still a bit pale, but there's a slight happy flush to his face as he looks up from his desk. His smile is genuine. "Hello, Castiel."

"How are you doing?" Castiel asks.

"Much better," Roger says. "I hear you've been busy looking for Bower."

Castiel nods and sits in one of the leather chairs opposite Roger's desk.

"You think he did it?"

Castiel looks away. "I don't know, honestly."

"Weird that one of their top lieutenants would go missing like that. I wonder if he pissed off his boss. Or someone else."

Someone else, Castiel thinks. "It could be totally unrelated to your case."

"Could be," Roger allows. "I'm not one for coincidences, though."

"Is that what you've been working on?"

"More or less. Murder and attempted murder of two federal agents is a huge charge. If we can prove it, that's the crack we need to turn someone. Then it's all downhill with RICO charges."

"Ironic that may be how we break them," Castiel comments.

"Too high a price," Roger says, referring to Agent Simon's death.

Castiel closes his eyes a moment. "Yes." He tries to put that aside, leave the exhaustion and self-loathing he's felt for weeks. He feels discombobulated, like there are pieces of him missing at work, absent from his daily life. He's not sure why. Is it because he can't tell anyone what he's done, save Dean? He doesn't even dare tell Morgan, and that hurts. He's not sure what Morgan would say or do. It's likely Morgan would support him, but he can't guarantee it. Though he knows Morgan wouldn't turn him in. Not knowing the circumstances. Even if he didn't approve, he wouldn't go that far.

But not to have Morgan's approval is something Castiel's been living with for a long time, because of Dean. But that's pointed more at Dean than Castiel, even though Castiel is the one making most of the decisions with their relationship. Or at least, Castiel was the leader, even if Dean followed willingly.

They discuss the case for nearly half an hour. It almost feels normal, to discuss a case he's investigating. Almost.

"You look tired," Roger says. "You should take a few days off. No one's dying." He smirks. "Anymore."

Castiel lets out a little huff of laughter. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

"Go home," Roger suggests. "I'll have my wife bring something by."

"Admit it, you just want to save me from bad Chinese takeout."

"I can't tell a lie."

Castiel laughs. "I'm glad you're doing so well, Roger."

Roger smiles. "Now scoot."

Only a father would use that word, but Castiel scoots anyway.

* * *

Castiel's been at his desk all morning, going through and calling any known affiliations Bower had. It's been mind numbing work, especially since no one is willing to speak to him. Bower may be dead, but no one's sure of that yet, which means they are actively not cooperating with the FBI. And even if he was known to be dead, cooperation isn't terribly likely. Not unless Andrew Merrano ordered it, because he's probably the only one who knows for sure that the murderer isn't someone he's connected with.

It's a good thing. Castiel is somewhat bored by his current work, but relieved.

Meyer is sitting at his desk, catty corner to Castiel's, and tapping an unlit cigarette against his lips because he's not allowed to smoke in the building. Meyer always struck Castiel as the kind of agent who looks like an old noir film detective – from the slightly frazzled tie and jacket, to the slight unshaven look, and his rough voice. Still, he's smart. Smart enough to have Castiel worried, at least. Those pangs of anxiety when Meyer hits upon something accurate are enough to keep Castiel up at night.

Meyer's phone rings. "Hello?" Then he frowns. "You're sure?" He raises his eyes to look at Castiel. "Got it, thank you for informing us. Yeah, I'm thinking he was killed here, so if your detectives wouldn't mind – thanks. Ship the body? Yeah, do that. And that." Then he hangs up.

"Who was it?" Castiel asks, sipping his cold coffee.

"Bower's body was dumped in Ottawa National Forest," Meyer says. "Hiker found it two weeks ago in a shallow grave some wolves dug up. They finally managed to identify him from dental records."

It feels like Castiel's heart stops. He raises an eyebrow and says, "Oh? I'm assuming he didn't drop dead during a hike."

Meyer snorts. "This is going to be like a game of Clue, with about a hundred players with motives for wanting that bastard dead."

Including Castiel. "Could be the Merranos," Castiel says.

"Could be, but they've never gone to that kind of length to hide a body. That would kind of defeat the point. Nah, must be someone else," Meyer says. "Something about this whole thing pings me the wrong way. We're missing something."

Exactly what Castiel doesn't want to hear. "We need to go out there?"

Meyer sighs. "Thankfully, I doubt it. They've already had techs all up and down the crime scene, there won't be anything left there or intact for us to find. We'll have to do with the file they hand us." He points at the phone. "Oh, and they're sending us the body so our coroner can take a second look."

"That's good." No, it's not. Fuck, what if he left evidence? What if he missed something? "Send me the file?"

"Should be emailing it now," Meyer says. "And we officially have a murder investigation. Local cops are handing it over, since it's likely the national forest was just a dump site and he was killed here."

"This changes how we look at his disappearance," Castiel comments. He casually takes off his jacket, trying not to sweat.

"We go back to the last day anybody saw him and we trace his steps," Meyer says with a shrug. "Again. Maybe people will cooperate now he's dead. He can't exactly get revenge for them giving us info on him now, can he?"

Up to the point that Castiel killed him, Bower lived a pretty normal life for a criminal. He got up and went to work every day (afternoons, actually, and into the early morning hours). His neighbors say he developed a sensitivity to light, but the landlord has refused to let them in so far, and they don't have cause for a warrant.

Didn't have cause.

Castiel goes home that night with the entire case file from the local sheriff department out in Ottawa National Forest, and reviews all the mistakes he made.

You'd think someone who investigated murders for a living would be better at committing one, time crunch or not.

Castiel left the body near a hike trail. Not the one he used to get there, but another. Rookie mistake, he should have rechecked the map. The body was five feet in the ground, all Castiel could dig in the time available. He hit a layer of hard rock, and knew he couldn't be gone for that much longer. Of course, he burned the body before he fully buried it. He has that going for him, at least. There's no fibers on his body, no fingerprint evidence, and Castiel dug out the bullets he used on Bower – a messy, quick job that left gaping wounds in the corpse. His knife left marks on the bone, the only remaining evidence since the fire burned off most of the flesh. The coroner even noted it was done post-mortem. There's slivers of metal from the machete he used to behead him, but nothing identifiable about that.

A strong, six foot plus man beheaded Bower, according to the report. It was done with one blow with no hesitation, after he was shot twice in center mass. Police or military trained from the precision of the shots, two inches apart according to damage to his chest plate and rib bones.

Castiel shivers, and covers it with a cough, even though there's no one here to see. Investigating a murder he committed can be eerie.

The park doesn't require permits for hiking or camping, so there's no trail there, though it's possible Castiel's car could be seen on random security cameras that he has no way of tracking. The initial investigators went up and down roads leading into the forest, looking at security tapes, but found nothing of interest. If Meyer doesn't recheck it, it's possible that even if Castiel was caught on tape, he wouldn't be caught. Only someone who knows Castiel would recognize his bland, 2009 sedan.

No blood at the scene, Bower's or unidentified.

He closes the report and opens the envelope full of pictures.

Bower's corpse is mostly skeleton. There's blackened bits from the fire. That's all Castiel sees before he throws it to the side, rushes to the bathroom, and vomits.

Even in the midst of digging his fingers into bloody skin and bone and muscle, he didn't throw up. He knew he couldn't leave the bullets behind, and he knew he couldn't leave his stomach contents behind either, so he swallowed it down.

He braces his arms on the toilet. "Fuck," he whispers.

* * *

Meyer hands Castiel a steaming hot coffee cup the next morning. "Ready to head over to the laundromat?"

"Think he'll answer us now? He wouldn't even let us in the back office last time."

"Called him this morning," Meyer says, sipping his own coffee. He grimaces and starts poking around his desk for sugar packets. "Apparently he's been told to cooperate. I think Merrano wants to know who killed his guy."

"Still think it wasn't him?" Castiel asks. "He is the most likely person to do it, barring some other criminal element wanting to start a war."

"They'd have gone after Merrano's deadbeat kids if they wanted a war," Meyer replies. "No, this one …" He shakes his head. "It's weird."

Castiel grabs his jacket, feeling cold already, and they're still inside. "Let's see what he has to say."

The laundromat looks the same as it did the last time Castiel was here. Which, incidentally, was not when Castiel followed Bower on his way out and murdered him, but when he and Meyer tried to get the supervisor to talk about Bower's habits.

The supervisor is an old, graying man of about seventy. When Castiel knocks on the open door to the back office, he grunts, takes a bite out of a sloppy sandwich, and then finally looks over at the two of them. "What do you want?"

"You said you'd talk to us about Weston Bower," Meyer reminds him.

"Yeah, yeah. Went missin' eight weeks ago. Just never showed up for work the next day." He takes another large bite of his sandwich, and starts speaking again before he's done chewing. "Wasn't the type to check in, though, so I didn't pay it any mind until about a week passed."

Meyer points at the security camera in the corner of the room. "You got security tapes?"

"Yeah," the supervisor says.

"You do?" Castiel asks, startled. "They didn't look hooked up."

"My son went and made it all go through the air," the supervisor says, waving his hand. "Digital. Left the wires hanging out because I was too lazy to take'em down."

"Good," Meyer says, while Castiel's stomach spins. "Can we take a look?"

The supervisor shrugs. "Dunno. I delete it all on the computer every month or two. You can take a look. I need to go fix one of those stupid machines out there." He waves a hand at the computer, an ancient model, and then takes his sandwich and goes.

"I'll take this," Castiel says, with as much ease as he can manage. There might be a recording of him taking a look at Bower to see if he was the origin of the spell, though Castiel knows he avoided security cameras when he stalked Bower to kill him, even ones he thought were broken. "You see if any of the other employees –" of which there are too many for a laundromat, but they do sometimes show up for 'work' – "and I'll talk the grunt work. For the coffee this morning."

"I'll bring you coffee every morning if it makes you do the scutwork," Meyer says with a grin, and takes off.

Castiel sits and starts opening files. All the footage from the security cameras goes into the same file, in twenty four hour chunks. Castiel changes the view to show dates instead of thumbnails, and goes to the day he came to check on Bower.

It's there. Castiel stares at it. He wipes his mouth. "Shit," he mutters. Every month or two, he said. There's three months of footage here. Castiel needs to erase one month to cover up erasing that one day, the day Bower went missing. He grabs the files with a right click and then hits delete.

A progress bar shows up, putting it in the recycle bin. Castiel looks up, but Meyer is still talking to someone outside. Fifty percent. Eighty. Done.

Castiel opens up disk cleanup and uses that to empty the recycle bin. As good as he's going to get. If Meyer gets the idea that he can possibly recover – but Castiel can't do anything about that.

"Find anything?"

Castiel doesn't jump, by a small margin. "Nope. Looks like we just barely missed it. Wish they'd let us look at this a few weeks ago."

Meyer grunts. "No one saw anything suspicious, except they said Bower went and screamed at somebody earlier that day."

That would be Castiel. "Didn't see him?"

"Didn't see the driver, don't remember the car. Some old sedan." Meyer frowns. "Maybe we'll ask the neighboring businesses, see if we can catch anything, run some license plates. And stop by his place, landlord should let us in now. I bet he's late on rent, too."

Dead people usually are.

"Sounds good," Castiel says lightly. He maintains the casual attitude until they reach Bower's apartment building. A quick talk with the landlord results in him opening the apartment door for them – after ascertaining that no, the body's not in the apartment.

"For once," the landlord mutters.

The entire apartment is boarded up from the inside.

"Shit," Meyer murmurs. "He really didn't like light, did he?"

"Photophobia, maybe."

"Fear of photos?"

"Intolerance to light," Castiel corrects. "With the eyes, specifically."

Meyer grunts and starts going through Bower's mail.

Castiel wanders over to Bower's rickety desk. At first it just looks like bills, but then Castiel pays closer attention to the address – not this one. The address listed is one that Castiel recognizes from when he was with the BAU. It was one of the nests left over that Dean and the other hunters killed, resulting in more 'murders' for the FBI to solve. He picks up one and slips it into his pocket.

Meyer goes over the desk, too, but seems to think nothing of the random letters that Castiel found. They're mostly vague requests for help.

The vampires left after their leader was killed tried to stay together for a while, it seems, before finally scattering. Like Bower.

That fucking case has followed Castiel like a plague.

They spend nearly forty minutes searching the apartment, but all they find is regular crap and more spell materials, which Castiel identifies based on his earlier research on the warehouse. Castiel finds two empty blood pouches in the trash. Apparently Bower was using a combination of blood and life source to keep himself alive.

"No food," Meyer says, peering into the fridge. He looks around the apartment. "No takeout. Nothing. It's like he didn't really live here."

"Or he didn't eat here, he might eat out and just use this as a place to sleep," Castiel says. "Not everyone cooks."

Meyer shrugs. "I guess so. This whole case is so fucking weird."

That's the supernatural for you, Castiel wants to say. But he only comments, "Yes, it is."

* * *

Castiel doesn't have to destroy any other evidence. The body offers nothing more to the FBI coroner. The case stalls.

He meets Dean, not long after the last lead dries up.

"So you got away with it?" Dean asks, settling into the living room's cushy chair. He got another cabin, anonymously. It's safer. This one is farther away than the other was, comparative to Castiel's home. Castiel checked into a nice hotel with a spa thirty miles away, just to cover his bases.

Castiel shrugs uncomfortably, not wanting to look at Dean. "I don't know. So far, yes."

"Cas. You deserve this, you know that?"

Castiel raises his gaze. "What do you mean?"

"You deserve a normal life."

"I'm not sure I'll ever have one," Castiel says wryly.

"You know, you could cut me off and forget about the supernatural and then –"

"All my problems would be solved?"

This time Dean shrugs uncomfortably. "Well, yeah."

"I'm not one to stick my head in the sand, Dean."

"No." Dean looks down. "No, but I thought I'd give it a try. You might be happier."

"You think I'm not happy?"

"I think you're really stressed," Dean says carefully, giving Castiel a pained smile. It hurts Castiel to see it.

Castiel straddles Dean's lap and says, "Then de-stress me."

Dean smirks.

* * *

"Novak! Get in here!" Anders shouts from his office.

"Break a leg," Roger says. He's been back at work for three days and is mostly taking it easy with office work. Boring, but necessary.

Castiel enters Anders tiny, cramped office. "Yes?"

"Sit down." Anders glares at his computer.

Castiel sits.

"Agent Stein is ready for field work. I'm reassigning you to investigating the Merrano's personal hitman, you're better at it. Stein will take your spot."

Castiel blinks. "Sir, I have a lot of experience in murder investigations."

"We need new eyes, it's hitting a dead end. Now stop fucking arguing with your boss and do it." Anders mutters something else unintelligible and smarts hitting his mouse hard.

Castiel wants to argue. But knows he can't, not at this point. He nods, though Anders doesn't see it, and leaves.

Is Anders telling the truth? Castiel hasn't heard of anything more. Meyer is acting completely normal. As far as he knows, the arson he committed to cover up the scene of the killing is just that – arson. The investigators think it was insurance related.

Castiel's little murder plan is going to plan. Alone, at night, he laughs about it, and then wipes his eyes, not sure whether it's tears of laughter or grief.

He prays things will go back to normal.

* * *

It's summer.

Castiel's in his pajamas on a Sunday morning when there's a knock at the door. He groans, gets up, and heads over to see who decided to get his attention at nine in the morning. He flips open his laptop and checks the security camera he has outside his door.

It's Mrs. Stein. Holding a pie.

Castiel blinks. It's been months since Mrs. Stein came over with Roger's approved casserole. And Sundays are usually piano lessons for the kids.

He opens the door. "Good morning," he says. "Kind of early for pie, isn't it?"

Mrs. Stein stares at him, and then brushes him aside as she comes in. She puts the pie on his coffee table, and wanders over to the fireplace.

"Is Roger okay?"

She starts. "Oh, he's fine. Don't worry about him." She grimaces and there's an odd, uncomfortable silence. Castiel uses it to sit down, hoping his relaxation will spread to her.

The social expectation overcomes whatever is bothering her, and she sits. Then she asks, "You're not married, are you? Never been?" Mrs. Stein asks.

"No," Castiel says, puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

She doesn't answer right away, staring thoughtfully at the pink plane sitting on CAstiel's mantle. "But you have family."

"My brother. Yes. Mrs. Stein, is something wrong?"

She smiles weakly, a strange expression on her lively face. "I went to law school, you know."

"I didn't know that," Castiel admits.

"I decided to be a stay at home mother, but I was top of my class. I loved the law. Loved the order, even in the oddities of human decision making about what words and intent meant."

"Well, you sound like a lawyer," Castiel says wryly.

She laughs, loud and abrupt. "My point is … my point is, I know what's happening. What happens next."

Castiel leans forward, a tiny thread of worry wriggling its way into his gut. "Mrs. Stein."

"Agent Anders and Meyer came to visit my husband. They were arguing. About you."

That's not a good sign. "What did they say?"

"That you murdered Weston Bower to save my husband's life. Something about torturing him to get the cure and then covering it up with murder. Roger insisted it wasn't possible."

Castiel exhales sharply. He leans back, eyes closing momentarily. "I see. Anything else?"

"They intend on arresting you - soon. Maybe a day, maybe less. They're getting their ducks in a row to arrest one of their own, they don't want to make a single mistake. They're even getting the DA on board before – well, before they come get you."

"I don't know why they –"

"You saved my husband. I know you did."

Castiel opens his mouth.

"No. Don't tell me anything. Let me talk. I know you saved him. I don't know how, but when everyone else was going through old records and trying to hit up criminal informants, you were off grid. And then, miraculously, my husband recovers from nearly complete organ failure."

"I didn't do anything," Castiel says. Referring to both.

"Maybe," she allows, but Castiel can tell she doesn't believe it. "You saved my husband's life, so I'm here to help you. They found the – the kill site. Your fingerprint. There's additional evidence, but I don't know what it is. All I know is that they are certain it was you."

Castiel breathes for several long seconds, mind whirling. What was it? Did they get video of Castiel visiting Bower before hand? Did they find his sedan on security cameras near the scene? Did his cover ups get discovered? What mistake did he make?

If what she says is true, then regardless of whether they get a conviction, Castiel's career is over.

His life is over.

Hers isn't. He raises his eyes. "You need a reason to be in this part of town. A special dinner for Roger, something. Because they'll look."

"I know," she says simply. "Law school, remember? And the wife of an FBI agent. I've got my alibi."

Castiel swallows. "Then go. Stay safe."

She pauses. "You saved my husband's life, and ended yours in the process. I can never repay that debt."

Castiel eyes her. "It's not a debt that needs paid."

"Let me know if there's anything else I can do," she says simply, then stands up. Castiel joins her out of habit. She takes his hand, her own warm. She looks right into Castiel's eyes. "Thank you."

"Mrs. Stein."

She pauses. "Yes?"

"What's your first name?"

She smiles. "Kelly Anne. Goodbye, Castiel."

Then she turns and leaves.

Castiel paces. He's sweating, though it's cold. He needs to think. To think very, very carefully. The kitchen and the living room blur into one room, his feet traveling the same path over and over.

This is what he has feared since the day he murdered Weston Bower. That he would be found out. Castiel has been dodging the truth with lies for so very long, now. It started with the BAU, with the simplest of lies – about his ankle cuff, about how Dean held him for so long, then keeping Dean's location a secret, failing to give the BAU the information needed to capture him. Then a hunt. And another. Morgan. More hunts, more lies. The vampire organization that Dean literally cut the head off of, that Castiel gave him the time for – that split second decision to put the hunt first over protecting his own ass. Dean succeeded. Castiel lost.

So many lies.

Mrs. Stein could be lying. Castiel has to consider that possibility.

But it seems so incredibly remote that she is. Roger would never countenance using his wife to scare Castiel into admitting guilt by running. He's very protective of his family.

So that leaves the other possibility: she is telling the truth, and Castiel is twenty four hours away from being arrested. Anna is missing. He can't depend on her to get him out. Would he get bail? Would he run, if he did, or stay to stand trial for a crime he knows he committed? He doesn't have the confidence of innocence, only the confidence that he did what was right.

Castiel slides down the wall until his ass meets the floor.

Yes. Maybe now, he can admit it to himself. He committed a crime, and yet it was the right thing to do. He feels a weird need to confess to it, to be punished for it, and yet at the same time he feels almost outraged that he would be. What choice did Castiel have, when Roger was dying from a spell – something no sane person in the modern world admits to believing in? What else could Castiel have done, except let Roger die and the man – the vampire – who did escape? And merely because the FBI has no knowledge of magic, at that. 'The weapon doesn't exist in reality, your honor, but we're sure he did it' – no. And while he has killed vampires before, he did so in the heat of combat, the immediate need to defend himself and Dean in that ranch house, burning beneath their feet. Even the law would admit the necessity of those deaths.

Hunters commit crimes by the dozens, and not just ones related to hunting directly. Dean still uses credit card scams, though he also has investments that Sam made before he passed away. Dean will even, occasionally, cheat someone in a bar at pool. Hunters, having been cast into the role of criminal, feel no compunction about fulfilling that expectation outside of the absolutely necessary bounds.

That mindset has been creeping into Castiel's. For a long time, he realizes.

How could he have taken Dean back without it? Even romantically pursued the man who once kidnapped and raped him?

Castiel chose to take the morality of this world as something variable, no longer applicable in all circumstances.

Law requires absoluteness to be absolutely fair. To let a criminal go unpunished rather than an innocent punished. For there only to be justice, and not vengeance, and the law being the only way to accomplish that.

Castiel isn't sure he believes that anymore. The world is so much bigger and so much more gray than he ever knew, before that day in October, more than five years past.

Mrs. Stein – Kelly – came to him with a warning she knew she should not give. To her, the law is not absolute. Her husband's life came first. That's why she told him she was trained as a lawyer, because she knew the choice she was making. He _understands_ that.

When it comes to whether Castiel stays to protest his innocence to something he knew he did, or to run, that variable morality comes into play. Rightness, above law.

Does Castiel deserve to go to prison?

Once, he asked himself that question of Dean, and found the answer to be no. Can he judge himself more harshly than he did Dean?

In taking Bower's life, he did more than save Roger's; he cast aside the one he has lived for forty years, and taken up Dean's in its place. He can admit that now. He should admit that now.

It is the loss of everything he knows. Everything he has been. But it's already happened, and the consequences are falling like dominoes, and Castiel can't stop them.

Castiel stands up.

If he does this, he can't go back. Running will be an admission of guilt. But there's a certainty deep in Castiel's bones that this is it. This is the end of Castiel's normal life, by decisions he took, one by one.

He blinks and breathes. Looks around him.

This apartment, his home. He will have to take only what he can carry. Clothes? Cash. A burner cell.

Castiel strides towards the kitchen, but stops at the tiny fireplace. Balthazar's pink plane sits there still. Castiel gently picks it up, his vision blurring. His brother. God. Balthazar is going to lose his mind when he finds out, and his brother will be the first place the FBI looks for Castiel. He needs to warn him, to do something, to tell him something.

To take something.

Castiel goes into his closet and gets out a small duffel, designed to fit into airplanes, so not large. And then he grabs several editions of the local newspaper.

Carefully, lovingly, Castiel takes every pink item in his apartment that will fit into that duffel, and he wraps them tight, and wedges them inside. The basket, the airplane, the scarf, the ashtray even though Castiel doesn't smoke ("Cassie, I need it when I visit!"), the sweater, and the little birdhouse ("For when you give in and settle in and get a fucking house").

That last one …

Castiel slings the bag over his shoulder, still being cautious in how he moves it. Lots of odd items, bulky and weighted unevenly. He gets the burner cell from the pot in the kitchen and stares at it. Then he looks at his personal cell sitting next to his work cell on the kitchen table.

He picks up his cell, and dials.

 _"Balthazar's home phone, leave a message and don't be boring!"_ Beep.

"Bal." His throat closes up for several seconds. "I love you. I'll always be who you know me to be, your brother, no matter what they try to tell you. I'm – I'm so sorry. I love you." And then he hangs up.

Lastly, he gets Aditi from her doghouse in the small backyard of his apartment. She whines, as if sensing his anxiety, his loss, and his despair. She noses his hand, and he pets absentmindedly as he puts her on a leash.

And then Castiel leaves, knowing he's never coming back.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N** : 25k in about six, seven weeks isn't too bad! I'm pretty pleased with myself. We're 24/26 here, too.

 **A/N2** : I am considering writing an extended author's notes chapter when the story is done - a 'how I did it/weird facts about the writing' if you will. If anyone has questions they'd like me to answer about the story, let me know!

 **Warnings** : creepy dream of potential non-con, starvation and extreme dehydration, dubcon sex (depending on your point of view), violence and creepy supernatural stuff on par with the show, discussion of past abuse.

* * *

It's been almost three days since Castiel's life ended.

He's sitting at a bus stop, cold, wet and tired. Aditi is sitting at his feet, patiently. She's more in her element, with Castiel on the road. The extended walks calm her, make her less antsy. Dean bought a mix of breeds that were more suited for hunting than apartment living. He's pretty sure it's not intentional on Dean's part – Dean just wanted a good companion, and that meant a smart dog. Smart dogs are working dogs.

She's more free than she's ever been. Castiel doesn't know if he can say the same.

Aditi noses his hand. He reaches into his left pocket and gets a few stale pieces of bread. He's mostly run out of cash, but that's his fault; he told Dean to finish the hunt he was on, that five people were dead already, and Castiel wasn't going to die from traveling a few states over.

He kind of regrets it now, even if it's selfish.

The deep, rumbling purr of the Impala is first. Then, the dark gleam of her black finish.

Despite himself, Castiel smiles.

There's a sense of relief along with a mixture of other emotions. Guilt, anger, and a strange combination of affection and revulsion. He can't quite pin them apart and examine them properly. Not yet. He's spent the last few days not thinking about much, just watching out for cop cars and any public notifications of his arrest warrant. He avoids television. He has a baseball cap on, hiding his face. He looks like a hiker.

It's kind of surprising Dean recognized him from afar.

He stands up, Aditi by his side, and then opens the passenger door and slips in. Aditi goes in the back, which is covered in towels. His backpack goes in the footwell, very carefully placed. There's some delicate things in there. He slips off the baseball cap. He's always hated these things.

Dean smiles at him brightly. "Hey."

Castiel manages to return it.

Dean's joy at seeing him rapidly fades into concern. "So what happened? You got suspended or something? You were really vague on the phone."

"Something," Castiel says with a sigh. He sinks into his seat, wishing he could disappear and not explain this.

"It sounds bad, if they let you be gone this long," Dean says hesitantly. There's a long silence which Castiel does not fill. "Cas … tell me. Did they – did they find out?"

"Drive," Castiel orders.

Dean shifts from park to drive, and takes off. "Cas."

"I'm officially wanted for murder in the state of Michigan," Castiel admits. He checked online twelve hours after running, ducking into a Best Buy to test a laptop, and then ducking the eyes of the employees.

Dean's hands on the steering wheel tighten. "Fuck. Fuck. We can fix this, Cas, just tell me everything and I can –"

"There's no fixing it, Dean." He says it heavily, certain of its truth. "If I thought there were, I wouldn't have made myself a fugitive. They had my fingerprints at the murder scene. Possibly other evidence, I don't know what, but they were very – they were very sure it was me, Dean." He closes his eyes. "Fuck."

A sudden jolt of the car surprises Castiel into opening his eyes. The Impala is far too close to the car in front of it. Dean is staring ahead, face nearly white, jaw clenched. "This is all my –"

"I can't deal with your shit and mine at the same time, Dean."

Dean's mouth closes. Then, "Sorry, sorry, you're right."

Guilt closes in. "No, Dean, I –"

"You're right. Later, okay?" Dean gives him a small smile. "Eventually, but later. You're right. What do you need?"

Some tension finally eases out of Castiel. He's safe, for whatever that means. Not safe from the law, but safe from a certain set of consequences, at least. "A place to sleep. Rest." Recover.

"A hotel tonight, and I'll figure something better out," Dean promises. He licks his lips and offers, very quietly, "We could go to the bunker."

Castiel sits upright, a surge of fear working through him, along with too many memories, jumbling together in the top of his mind for attention. Along the panic filters a sense of outrage. Seriously? "No. No. I can't ever go back there, Dean. No. It was a prison, my prison, and I can't do that."

"Yeah, yeah, of course, I'm sorry. Technically – but not for you. I get that." Dean nods, face a bit pale. He gives Castiel another glance, this one less readable. "I love you."

It hurts to say it when guilt and grief and accusation lurk beneath the surface, but it's true, so he does: "I love you, too."

That relaxes Dean a little, though his shoulders are still too high, his hands gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, and most telling, he keeps his gaze directed at the road. Castiel recognizes the look: he feels guilty. But that simmering pot of grief and anger doesn't let Castiel assuage it. He supposes he was telling the pure truth when he said he couldn't deal with Dean's shit on top of his own.

Coming to terms with the change in his life – it's fair to say he hasn't even started. He has no plans. No direction.

Just Dean's steady breathing.

Castiel decides to get some sleep. This is the first time in days he's had someone looking out for him, and that part does feel very good. So he slumps against the door and lets himself drift off. He dreams uneasily of vague, threatening shapes that have no meaning.

"Cas, time to wake up." A gentle hand to his shoulder.

Castiel starts. The blinding red glare of a diner sign assaults his eyes first, then after a few blinks he realizes that they're parked – not in front of the diner, but across the street at a no-name hotel. Aditi barks, startling him again. Despite the vaguely ominous dreams, he'd slept very deeply. He still trusts Dean, however unconsciously. Perhaps it's better that way, in fact, so he doesn't have to think over each and every act.

Speaking of Dean. He looks over, and Dean offers a small smile. "Hey. I'm dropping you off, I already got the room key, and then I'm going to get dinner. Sound good?"

"Sure. Yes." Then he turns to look in the backseat. Aditi stares back at him guilelessly. "She's got to pee by now."

"I'll take care of it," Dean says. "Haven't seen anything or heard anything on the radio, but I'd rather not take the chance. And you're more recent in the minds of law enforcement than I am."

Castiel's heart sinks. "Right. Of course."

"It's just temporary," Dean emphasizes. "I've been doing this fugitive thing for a long time, Cas, and most of the time it's just some basic precautions and then I don't have to think about it."

Castiel considers that. "America is quite a large country."

"Exactly!" Dean grabs Castiel's hand and kisses it, like Castiel is a prince – or a lady.

Castiel laughs, just for a moment.

"It'll be okay, Cas."

For the moment, despite not knowing what 'okay' even means to him, Castiel chooses to believe Dean.

Dean escorts him to the hotel room, takes Aditi on a walk, and then returns five minutes later with a disgusted look on his face. "She shat all over someone's lawn. The things I do for love, dude."

"She is a dog," Castiel says mildly, and then pats his leg. Aditi bounds over to him, licking his hand enthusiastically.

"I'll be back in half an hour, okay?"

"I'll be here," Castiel assures him.

Another glimmer of a smile, and he's gone.

Castiel sinks back on the lumpy chair. Aditi begins to investigate the room, sniffing every corner. He watches her with dull curiosity, wondering what she'll do next. It's easier than thinking about what he's going to do next. He almost feels like he's on drugs. Mentally floating, without being capable of thinking about any one topic very deeply. The small amount of sleep he's gotten over the past few days is probably a contributing factor, but part of it is the lingering shock of his decision to save himself by damning himself.

He flops on one of the two queen beds.

One of the two. Dean, trying desperately hard not to make assumptions.

Aditi joins on him on the bed some time later, curling by his side. She's been doing that since Castiel left. He's not sure if she's just cuddling for warmth or recognized he needed it.

The door clicks open. "Hey."

Castiel opens his eyes to see Dean standing there, a greasy bag in one hand and two shakes in a little cardboard box in the other. "Dean." Just his name.

"Burgers. Crappy and greasy and horrible for you, but they smell good." Dean sits next to him on the bed, and after a moment's hesitation, he runs a hand through Castiel's hair.

Castiel leans into the touch and Dean's blunt fingertips card through his hair more firmly. He didn't do it to reassure Dean, more to reassure himself, but it's a good side effect, considering Castiel doesn't have the mental will to reassure Dean on purpose.

"Come on. Eat something."

Castiel sits up, practically hearing his joints creak. "I feel fucking horrible."

"Food'll help," Dean says simply. He rummages through the greasy bag and pulls out a burger and a bag of fries. He carefully unwraps it, frowns, then leaves Castiel to go to his duffel, and pulls out a paper plate. "You're always so neat," Dean explains. "So I take them with me."

It's stupidly sweet. Something cold and hard in Castiel melts a little.

Dean hands Castiel the burger and fries, carefully arranged on the paper plate. Castiel practically swallows it whole, eating the entire thing before he even touches the shake. He downs that next. "Thank you."

Dean hasn't touched his food. He's sitting on the other bed instead, watching Castiel with a strangely expressionless face. Even Castiel, as well as he knows Dean, can't read it.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

Dean shakes his head. "It's not important right now."

But the instinct to care for Dean is as strong as the one to fear him, sometimes. Despite his sluggishness, he asks, "What is it?"

Then Dean says, "I know you said – but I have to tell the truth. I ruined your life. I shouldn't be here, with you, I don't deserve it. I ruined everything for you." Stated simply, calmly, and with certainty. "And the main thing is, I'll keep ruining it."

Castiel's befuddled mind slowly begins to click, click, click. Working the concept over, mechanically and without emotion.

Dean waits, patient.

"I let you." With every decision Castiel made after captivity. One after another, leading him on a path he didn't choose consciously, but one he must have known, on some level, would lead here. He's no fool, except he is. He raises his voice. "I let you when I didn't tell the FBI everything about where you were. I let you when I – I literally let you go, Dean, I let you escape the first time I saw you, after. Twice, because you gave me your location. I let you when I let you back into my life, when – I let you." Quieter, with his shoulders slumping: "I let you."

Dean doesn't reply, looking sick.

"But, you know." Castiel considers Dean, considers the world he lives in, the one that has slowly swallowed Castiel whole. "What really is the root of all of this isn't that. Not really. It's the fact that you weren't crazy, and you proved it to me. If I hadn't known about the supernatural, that it was real, I wouldn't have let you do any of those things. And I wouldn't have murdered Weston Bower."

He wouldn't have lost everything twice. First to Dean, then because of Dean.

It's real. It hits him with the force of a train, knocking all the breath out of his body. This is real. He can never go home. He will probably never see his brother again, unless there is prison bars between them. He once partitioned his life before captivity and after; now there is before being a fugitive and after.

Castiel begins to cry. Silently at first, then his breathing starts to change, hitching, and then he's taking huge, heaving breaths as tears run down his face. Everything gone, gone, gone. Castiel, too. Gone. "Please," Castiel whispers, "please, take care of me."

Dean scrambles to Castiel's side, pulling Castiel into his arms. Castiel can smell Dean's unique scent, his face pushed into Dean's neck. "Shh, shh," Dean murmurs, over and over. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Dean doesn't say he's sorry for bringing the topic of his guilt up, but Castiel hears it in those words, repeated like if Dean says it enough, that will make things better, somehow.

Dean's callused hands run across sensitive skin when Dean slips off his Castiel's shirt, hands skimming his hips. Then the small of Castiel's back, pushing down Castiel's jeans and boxers. Hands gentle on Castiel's calves when he lifts each foot to get the bundled fabric off, along with his socks. He kisses the arch of Castiel's foot, one and then the other. He stands, close enough that the zipper of Dean's leather jacket touches Castiel's skin, shockingly cold.

Then Dean strips, quickly and efficiently, and he takes Castiel's hand, squeezing tight. "I'm going to start a shower. We're going to shower. Nice and warm, and get you clean. Okay?"

Castiel nods jerkily. He sees himself on a wanted poster, on the FBI's most wanted list, perhaps, someday, after killing so many monsters that the world doesn't see as such, like Dean. Dean's there, he knows. Dean now has over a hundred and forty confirmed kills.

Dean pulls Castiel to the bathroom and doesn't let go while he turns on the water and starts testing it for warmth, adjusting the faucet. He pulls out the tab and the shower starts. Dean turns to face Castiel, his free hand going to Castiel's face, fingers running along the stubble along Castiel's jaw. Then he steps backwards into the tub, and Castiel follows.

The space is small, especially for two full grown men, but Dean manages it. He gets Castiel under the force of the water first, stinging hot. Between Castiel's slow blinking, he sees Dean's focused expression as he strokes along Castiel's sides, down to his hips and his thighs, then shifting his warm palms to Castiel's back, pressing his front against Castiel's while he massages Castiel's back. He doesn't have an erection. Neither does Castiel.

When Castiel is thoroughly wet – Dean only half so, being on the other side from the shower head – Dean grabs a tiny bottle of shampoo and dumps the whole thing onto his hand, lathers it up, and then urges Castiel to turn around. Castiel can't see Dean now at all, just the shower head, so he closes his eyes as Dean's fingers work through his hair. Dean even has Castiel tilt his head back with the gentle pressure of his hands, literally moving Castiel's body around like his strings have been cut.

Dean reaches around Castiel to turn off the water, and then grabs a towel and wraps it around Castiel's shoulders. "Cold?" he asks.

Castiel shakes his head.

Dean grabs the other towel anyway, puts it around Castiel's hips. Leads him out. He grabs the towel from Castiel's shoulders and briskly rubs Castiel down. Castiel lets him do it, still half numb, half relaxed. When Dean takes the towel from Castiel's hips, he gets Castiel's lower body, then his own in quick succession. He's kneeling, getting his own legs dry, and then he suddenly looks up, eyelashes wet.

Castiel frowns in question.

Dean gently kisses Castiel's stomach, right below his belly button. The muscles there jump from the unexpected touch. Dean glances up, green eyes very green in this moment, in this light, and then spreads those gentle kisses out.

It's not sexual.

Dean takes Castiel's hand again and takes him to one of the beds, and then grabs the blanket and sheets and pulls them back. He sits Castiel down, helps him get his legs under the covers, and then curls up with him, still partly wet, and pulls Castiel into his arms. He pulls the covers up over them both, still silent.

Castiel closes his eyes and falls asleep.

* * *

Castiel wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone running into a table.

"Fuck!" Then, much quieter, "Shit, shit."

The room is blurry, but Castiel lets his eyes adjusts and finds Dean pretty easily. "I'm awake."

Dean flushes. Then he waves at the table he'd run into, which is covered with breakfast. He must have gone out, gotten takeout, and placed it on paper plates. Two steaming hot cups of coffee complete it. "Figured you'd be up soon, but I wanted to let you sleep as long as you needed."

"I'm fine."

"Okay." Dean nods, as if reaffirming he believes Castiel. Castiel doubts he does. "Do you want to eat?"

"I should," Castiel says with a sigh. He throws the blankets off of him and immediately shivers at the absence of the comforting warmth. But it's no different than a thousand other mornings with the same feeling, so he sits up, kicks the rest of the sheets off, and stands. Then he stumbles over to the only chair at the table, and sits. "You didn't want the chair, did you?"

"Nope," Dean says. He sits on the other bed, still made, and begins shoving the omelet into his mouth, plastic fork scraping the last bits from the paper plate.

The rest of the meal is conducted in silence. It's comfortable on Dean's part, though in a way it feels like Dean is waiting for something. Maybe for Castiel to feel capable of conversation, because right now he really doesn't. Castiel's not an early riser by nature, though years of working in law enforcement taught him to tolerate it. He supposes he doesn't really have to worry about that anymore. Hunters live on their own schedule, though the work is demanding in its own way.

The omelet is a little too salty, but otherwise good. Castiel downs all of it. He pushes the empty plate away and rubs his eyes.

"Since you're awake and fed and everything, I thought I'd ask you something," Dean begins hesitantly.

Castiel opens his eyes, wary. "What is it?"

"You said the bunker always be a prison, and I get that. I mean, I'll have to stop by there at some point but there's nothing that says you need to be with me. We could even get you your own car, though if long term – anyway. That's not it. Is my baby – the Impala – is she okay for you to be in? I don't want to, you know," Dean waves at the world as if that explains it, "trigger you."

Castiel considers that for only a moment. "No. I don't have the same associations with your car." Though Dean did hunt Castiel down with it once, drove him back to the bunker with Castiel bleeding in the backseat – and of course, the three outings, the last ending with Castiel walking away, towards freedom. There are memories connected to it, certainly, but good ones, too. Dean picking him up and driving him to the cabin. Here. Now. Those aren't bad memories, like Dean taking care of him without chaining him up at the same time. His times in the Impala were – clean, in their certainty, in not being a double layer of love and selfishness. "No. Don't worry about that."

Dean's shoulders slump. "Good. Good."

"What would you have done if I'd said yes?" Castiel asks curiously. He knows how attached Dean is to the Impala – it was Dean's home for most of his life, the place he grew up and the place his brother traveled with him on hunt after hunt.

Dean looks away. "Put her somewhere safe, keep her running, even if I didn't use her all the time. I did that before, drove a crappy modern car when I was with Lisa. Find a less worthy substitute, I guess."

Castiel's throat tightens. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean's bright green eyes are full of tenderness that Castiel knows will rarely ever be heard. "Of course, Cas."

Castiel looks around the motel room, dingy beige and all. "Where are we going?" He can't imagine they're staying here.

"I have a place for us," Dean states confidently. He goes to get his laptop from it's carrying case, and flips it open. "It'll take us several days to get there, but then we can stay for a while – or as long as you like – and you can get settled. Recover, I guess." He eyes Castiel warily or a moment, then acts as if he didn't, continuing steadily, "Or whatever else you want. It'll give us a somewhere to regroup, I know that matters."

"Do I get to know where?"

Dean hesitates, reading something on the screen. "Can it be a surprise?" He adds, "I think you'll like it."

It only takes Castiel a moment to decide. "All right, I trust you."

Dean slaps the laptop shut, grinning. "Then let's go."

The east coast fades into the Midwest outside the Impala's window. Day after day, subtly changing, except when they cross through a city, startling in how different they are from nature, and startling in how similar when viewed from a freeway. All that concrete and obnoxious signage.

They're driving through another when Dean asks, "Diner, or a chain?"

Castiel turns from the gently rolling hills to look at Dean, his face lit in reds and oranges from the setting sun. It flatters his face, but then almost everything flatters Dean's face. Castiel can appreciate it aesthetically, if nothing else. His sex drive has hit rock bottom. The only time he remembers being this disinterested was during the first months of his captivity in the bunker. "You pick."

"You always say that."

"I have less experience eating in weird places."

Dean opens his mouth and then closes it. "Okay, sure." He glances over. "How are you doing? Been pretty quiet. So, um, just checking in."

Castiel considers the question and then decides to answer it. "Dealing."

He is, in a weird way.

All Dean does is drive, take care of Castiel, and very reluctantly take care of Aditi. Castiel sits and thinks and watches the scenery, while the slow forward motion of his feelings continues. He's gone past anger, to depression, to some weird kind of numbness that is broken up by moments with Dean. The joy of Dean's touch, the comfort of his hugs, and the silliness of Dean's comments about the places they go and see. ("I almost ate a chupacabra in Nevada once. Long story." It is. Castiel insists on hearing the whole thing.)

Those moments of joy break through not only his despair, but also the lingering trapped feeling he's been having with Dean.

Maybe it's acceptance, what he's feeling. It wavers, though, as fragile as what Castiel himself is.

With the windows rolled down and Aditi insisting on sticking her head out, Dean tells Castiel a story about Sam and John having a huge fight in the middle of a hunt, resulting in glitter, in a very weird series of events that could only happen to a hunter. Then he tells the story about the other times glitter has been hunting related.

Castiel laughs. His heart lightens. And Dean keeps driving.

* * *

"I can't imagine there's anywhere else to go. So, California?"

"Yep," Dean says.

They're not headed for Los Angeles, that much Castiel can tell. They're in the northern part of the state, heading directly for the coast. Cities and towns fade into large swathes of farmland, and the morning fog from the ocean forces Dean to put his brights on. Castiel spends his time wondering what each of the crops are. Green and fluffy, green and tall, green and connected to wooden posts. They pull off the highway onto a winding road that still manages to be one lane in either direction. A bit more populated than the last place Dean took him, then. He sits back and relaxes, just looking out the window.

Aditi whines in the backseat, prancing on the towels unhappily.

"Soon, you mangy rat –"

"She's a dog, Dean, calm down."

"She smells," Dean mutters.

"She isn't leaving," Castiel says firmly.

Dean offers him a wan look. "I know, I'm just bitching."

"Keep in mind she can't understand your bitching, but I can." Castiel raises an eyebrow, silently asking if Dean wants to keep going.

Dean sighs. "There's a yard."

"She'll be thrilled." Castiel smiles.

Castiel isn't surprised to find that the place Dean is bringing him to is remote. It's a pattern, of course. First was the bunker, remote because the Men of Letters wanted it to be, because it was in the center of the continental United States, remote to Dean's relief because it made it harder for Castiel to get away. Then the hotels, close by, but isolated in their own way – this time to protect Castiel's job. The cabin, remote, to protect Castiel. And here. To protect Castiel from his former coworkers.

The road turns into a dirt road after a few miles of being one lane for both directions. The ditch shows signs of being recently cleared, but otherwise Castiel would think they're driving nowhere.

The house comes up very unexpectedly, just under a gently rolling hill, and beyond that – the sea.

Gray, with a few waves crashing into white foam. Endless.

The house is small, and painted a bright red. A larger, white house overshadows it from a few hundred yards away. Farm equipment dots the area.

The engine turns off and Dean looks at Castiel expectantly.

"How on earth did you find this place?" Castiel asks. "Is this where we're staying?"

"Yep! As for how, well, long story, but I know the family who owns it. A hunt." Dean shrugs. "Farmland on the coast is protected land, so it's not developed, you just have farms and a few tiny state beaches. The farms are mostly family owned like this one, that have been here for generations. We have the little mother-in-law's house for a month."

Castiel blinks. "A whole month?"

Dean wiggles his fingers. "I have my ways."

Castiel is startled into a laugh. "You always do."

It goes without argument that Castiel will take care of Aditi and Dean will take care of their bags. He slings them over his shoulder – Dean's bought Castiel some clothes, here and there, his only personal possessions – and then carefully picks up Castiel's backpack, still full of all the pink gifts Balthazar made for him. Aditi is very curious, running in circles, but she never strays far from Castiel.

There's a small fence around the little red house, including a backyard of sorts, mostly just grass and dirt. A little side path from the main house's driveway is how they get there.

The screen door of the main house opens with a loud bang. "Dean!"

Castiel turns, wary. It's been a while since he's properly interacted with anyone. A week? Something like that. It feels longer.

The speaker is an older gentlemen, gray in his beard and a worn baseball cap on his head. "Got your keys," he says, and throws them to Dean, who barely catches them. "Hello there." The man walks up to Castiel, eyes him with the experience of an old man, and asks, "Who might you be?"

Castiel hesitates.

"Jim, this is Castiel," Dean answers for him. "Another hunter, a friend of mine."

"Hello, Jim," Castiel says politely.

Jim offers Castiel his hand. Castiel shakes it. Then he returns his attention to Dean. "Everything's set up. Dinner's at seven, the wife expects you there promptly."

"Oh, uh, well we don't want to intrude –" Dean begins.

"We'd love to," Castiel interrupts. Three hours is plenty of time to get settled, and he suddenly finds himself desperate for company. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"But if you don't mind," Dean finishes, clearly differently than planned.

Jim grins. "'Course. See you in a bit." And he turns and leaves, apparently satisfied.

Castiel takes his backpack from Dean. "I take it he doesn't exactly know our history."

Dean sighs. "If he read about it, he doesn't believe it. And I mean, I could have told him, but I don't think he'd have let us stay here."

"It's fine. I think it'll be good to – not be judged, that way." No one who knows Castiel and Dean are together has been able to treat them as a normal couple. And of course, they're not a normal couple – on so many levels it's not funny – but normalcy is nonetheless a reassuring thing. Routine, even the routine of polite social interaction, has its benefits.

Dean nods, just once. "Whatever you want, Cas. Always." And he turns and heads up to their home for the next month.

The inside is just as nice as the outside, if dated to the eighties. The kitchen is a strange blue color, and the walls are variations of orange and pink. The wood trimmings are peeling, revealing the wood beneath, and the wood floor boards are cracked in a few places, resulting in a squeal when Castiel walks over them. There's two bedrooms, one clearly meant for one person, perhaps a child, and the other the master, with a king bed. A homemade quilt lays on top of it. The attached bath has a claw tub that is surprisingly large.

Past the kitchen is a door that leads to the fenced yard. A few hundred feet beyond that is the sea. There's no beach, just rocky land that meets water. An old, wood boat is tied to a stake in the shallows, dipping and bobbing with the small waves.

It's peaceful.

Castiel has been longing for peace for years, or that's what it feels like. And here, it feels possible. He centers himself in the present, in the life he's living right now – not the one he lost, not the one he left behind, just right here, standing on a rocky grass and looking over the Pacific ocean, so beautiful and vast. And Dean, playful and caring, arousing and frustrating. He'd missed Dean in his normal life, his life with the FBI and his brother. Or he learned to, once Dean proved himself worthy of that, worthy of the trust that Castiel needed to feel in order to love Dean again.

He does love Dean. Not terribly, not horrifically, but through forgiveness and acceptance of the past. Living in the present, just like he's reminding himself to do here.

Losing his life isn't all bad. He has Dean, his lover and his soulmate, and Dean has proved himself again and again.

Castiel can relax here, mentally and physically. And remember what it's like to love Dean every day, instead of the compressed nights he had before.

"What do you think?" Dean whispers in his ear.

Castiel represses the urge to jump and glances over his shoulder. He reaches out and finds Dean's hand, resulting in a soft, warm sigh from Dean flowing over his shoulder. "It's beautiful. You say you met Jim through a hunt?"

"His wife, actually. Her sister was a witch. One of the good ones. Anyway, she died, and I solved her death, and Patty insisted she owed me one. Gave me all her info, told me I'd have to stop by the farm sometime." Dean pauses, steps up to Castiel's shoulder. "Thought I'd take Sam here someday, but it didn't happen." He smiles at Castiel. "Glad to have you here, though."

Castiel kisses him, the first he's given since fleeing. "What do you say we take a bath?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "We?"

"Nice and hot," Castiel says. He slaps Dean's ass. "Get going."

Laughter bursts out of Dean, truly happy. "I'm getting revenge for that, you know," he says, and then turns and goes back inside.

Castiel lingers, while Aditi investigates the yard to her satisfaction. She could probably jump over the fence, but she's well trained enough she won't wander too far, if she does.

He gives Dean twenty minutes to figure things out, then goes back inside. Aditi is still running around the yard, quite content to be left.

Dean is standing naked in the bathroom, bent over the tub like he's checking the temperature of the water. Because of the way he's hunched over, his legs are slightly spread, and Castiel can see his balls hanging between his legs. No sign of his cock. Is he hard?

Castiel steps up and presses a hand to Dean's ass. "Warm enough?"

Dean shivers, barely perceptible. He smirks over his shoulder. "Nice and hot, as requested."

Castiel steps back. "Get in."

It's an order. Dean raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't disobey. He turns to his side so he can slip one leg in it at a time, revealing that yes, he's half hard. It's an appealing sight. For the first time, Castiel feels his own cock start to swell in actual arousal, not just morning wood. That's as much of a look as Castiel gets, though. Dean's under the water in moments.

Castiel strips. Dean stares at Castiel's cock, lips wet.

Then Castiel's stepping into the water, which is in fact almost steaming hot. He shudders as the heat pours across his skin, biting his lip. "Perfect."

The tub is large, but two full grown men in it – well, they're definitely touching. Castiel is facing Dean, and his legs are pressed against Dean's, his shin almost touching Dean's erect cock. Dean got the right amount of water, too, so it meets their shoulders but isn't overflowing with two men in the tub.

Dean clears his throat. "Can I touch you? Just to massage."

Castiel nods.

The massage starts with Castiel's calves, then up his thighs, and back down to his feet. Dean's good at it, even with the water in the way. Castiel can feel himself sinking down into the water, muscles too loose to hold himself up.

It feels wonderful to be touched, to be intimate.

This is his life now, Castiel reminds himself. He can't go home, can't go see his brother. But in return, he has Dean, every day. This man who loves him so much, enough to radically change himself and make himself safe. There's a gift in that, a positive outcome in a sea of negative ones. Castiel holds onto it.

Work and his brother were two of Castiel's major anchors. Now only Dean is left, really. Castiel doesn't doubt his brother still loves him and would do anything for him, but Castiel can't take advantage of that without endangering his brother. He won't take that risk. He could take that risk on behalf of himself, but not for anyone else. It's why he didn't tell Morgan until he absolutely had to. He can't imagine forcing the reality of the world upon his brother, his so very normal brother with his normal life, teaching boisterous children. A world of spells and monsters and ghosts would be far too great a burden, simply for a larger piece of Castiel's own happiness.

Dean is a very large part of Castiel's happiness, now. Before, every parting hurt, and every joining a joy. Now there's just the two of them, on the road and together. Or here, in careful places Dean chose for Castiel to relax and be free. Without wariness and fear. Without the memory of fear.

"I love you," Castiel says.

Dean starts, the water rippling, his thumb unexpectedly digging into Castiel's arch. "I love you, too."

"I haven't said that since we met up, have I?"

"It's okay, Cas."

"But I do love you. So much." Castiel smiles, feels a tear slip down his cheek. "I didn't want to be with you because I was running, but I am happy to be with you. I want you to know that. You're not – a second best."

A short sob escapes Dean, but otherwise his composure doesn't break. "I'll try to be worthy of that. Thank you, Cas." He kisses Castiel's foot. "But in case you ever feel different, I'll love you anyway."

Castiel takes his foot back and maneuvers onto his knees, the water slopping over the sides of the tub. Castiel makes a mental note to clean that up later. Then he leans in, pushing Dean's legs apart as he goes, and kisses Dean.

Dean's hands cup Castiel's face in return, and he pulls Castiel closer, sure of being wanted. And he is. Castiel runs a hand up from Dean's nape to the back of his head, and then pulls his hand away to place it on the edge of the tub, to steady himself. Then he uses his free hand to reach between Dean's legs and fold around Dean's cock.

Dean hisses. "Fuck." He swells rapidly in Castiel's grip, then smirks. "Are you going to do something about that?"

Cheeky. Castiel strokes him from base to tip.

"Can I jerk you off?" Dean asks, always asking.

"Yes, please, do it," Castiel says, hard, and suddenly so full of arousal he feels like he could burst. Dean's palm is callused from years of guns and knives and machetes. Even underwater, the texture adds to the pleasure. Castiel jerks his hips forward into Dean's hand, and it's been so long since he came that it only takes a few minutes of that – Castiel loosely gripping Dean's cock, barely able to return the favor in his distraction – and he comes into Dean's hand, in the water.

He pants, his arm steadying himself trembling.

"Fuck, you're so hot," Dean says, pupils large.

"You close, or should we take this to the bed?"

Dean groans. "Won't last. Just finish me off."

It takes only three strokes and then Dean is curling in on himself as he comes, nearly hitting Castiel in the face with his head. Dean comes out of it gasping.

Castiel grins at him. "I think we lost about half the water in the tub."

Dean just sinks back, closing his eyes with a smile on his lips. "We'll tell them we'll pay for any damages."

"You get to explain how we got water all over the place." Castiel stands up, looking for a towel.

Green eyes snap open. "Shit, I might need help." Pause. "I'll come up with a good lie. I'm a good liar."

Castiel throws a towel in his face.

Dean laughs once he's done choking on the water he slipped into.

* * *

Going to dinner with Dean is downright bizarre.

Never, in the whole five years Castiel has known Dean, have they gone out together normally. In any sense of the word. They've never eaten out together; they've never met each other's family, done any of the usual dating rituals. And of course they haven't – Balthazar met Dean once and would have killed him had he the opportunity. All of Dean's family is dead, though Castiel expects to meet them in heaven. And this thing between Dean and Castiel has shifted from captor and captive loving each other in remote silence to Castiel escaping, and hating and hating, and then all the way back around, loving each other, just the two of them. Desperately and quietly, trying to keep it all a secret.

So to walk outside their house for the month to have dinner with another couple is – unprecedented, at the very least.

The sun is setting. He's holding Dean's hand in a cool breeze, coming off the ocean. He's with … his boyfriend. He supposes.

"Whatchya thinking, Cas?"

"I think you're my boyfriend. Technically."

Dean eyes widen in the low light. "Uh, well. Yeah, I guess you are. We are. Boyfriends."

"I mean, that's what we would tell them, right?" Castiel looks at Dean for reassurance. Castiel had once called Dean his lover; it never went further than that, in his mind. What they were was too complicated – too complicated for lover, too, especially back then, when Castiel was accepting of sex because of the pure deprivation Dean inflicted. Castiel's not deprived of anything now, except the life he wanted to live. But he can leave, if he wants. That makes all the difference in the world.

"I'd love to be your boyfriend, Cas," Dean says with surprising ease.

Castiel smiles at him. "I'm glad they don't know. So people will see you how I see you, without all of our history poisoning everything."

Dean's answering smile is sad, but joyous too. Castiel considers it a win.

Castiel insists on knocking on the front door. Patty answers it, an apron on, says loudly, "I'm Patty. Come in!" as if to warn others they're approaching, and then heads off for the kitchen without adding anything else.

The kitchen is as Castiel expects from the look of the house. It's homey, all whites and blues, fitting for a house next to the sea. The cabinets are starting to lose their paint, just like the ones in the little mother-in-law house, but the spots where the paint has flaked have been sanded down, so there's no sharp edges, nothing falling. It's conspicuously clean.

Patty hops from one task to another, humming. Patty reminds Castiel a bit of Mrs. Stein, but where Mrs. Stein was just pleasantly plump, there's real muscle on Patty. She's a working woman, and it shows.

She finally stops stirring a pot of mashed potatoes, turning to greet them properly. "Dean, Dean," she says lightly, and gives him a hug.

Dean returns it.

Then she directs her attention to Castiel. "Castiel! Castiel? Did I say it right?" Patty asks.

"Yes, that's correct," Castiel says, offering his hand.

When she takes his, he turns her hand over so he can kiss the back. She laughs. "Oh, you're a sweet one. What an unusual name, though. You'll have to tell me the story behind that, there must be one."

"There is," Castiel assures her.

She turns back to the stove. "The chicken's cooking just a bit longer, but the casserole is done. So we can get started, if you two are hungry."

"I'm hungry," Dean admits. "Chicken sounds delicious, though."

"Whole and fresh," Patty says. "I do have to say I'll never quite get over snapping a chicken's neck, though."

Dean makes a face and sits at the table. Castiel almost joins him, then pauses. "Shall I ready the table?"

"Certainly," Patty says, and points to a cabinet. "Plates and cups." Then a drawer. "Silverware. The good kind, you're guests."

Dean pops right back up. "I'll help."

Castiel points at the silverware drawer and heads for the cabinet. Laying out the table is something he was in charge of as a child, still living with his parents. He hasn't had much occasion for it since – despite his neatness and his paper plates, he rarely actually goes to the trouble of formal dining at home – but his hands remember what to do. Surprisingly, Dean knows what to as well, even putting the fork on the correct side.

Jim comes in a minute later, saying shortly, "Evening," and then goes to wash his hands.

Patty puts the casserole on the table, and invites them all to sit.

Castiel sits next to Dean, of course. It's reassuring to see Dean out of the corner of his eye, even if also a bit weird; they usually sit opposite each other.

"So how did you meet?" Patty asks, filling Dean's plate. "I've only seen Dean twice in the last ten years, but I never heard about you, just Sam, who I'd still like to meet."

Dean clears his throat, that familiar grief crossing his face. He takes the offered plate, staring it rather than raising his gaze. "Sam passed away."

There's a short silence. Shock colors Patty's face white, and Jim looks away. They clearly both know how important Sam was to Dean. After a moment, Patty manages to say, "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."

Dean tries to smile. Castiel reaches over and takes his hand where it lays on the table, holding on tight. He doesn't care what it looks like. Dean does manage to smile this time, a grateful one directed Castiel's way. "It's okay. It's been – God, seven years now?" Dean pauses, clearly unbalanced by that. His hand trembles in Castiel's grasp. "I didn't mention it last time – well, it's not important. I was kind of in denial back then." He shakes his head. "He saved a lot of lives. I met Cas two years after that."

Deliberately vague. Castiel picks up where Dean left off. "It wasn't a very good beginning," he says, "but we're together now."

Jim squints. Patty whacks him. "I'm glad to hear it. You shouldn't be alone," she says.

Castiel kind of feels like they've passed a test, like there should be a sign above his head stating that's really, really in a real relationship.

"So yeah," Dean says, using his free hand to scratch the back of his neck. "I'm still hunting. That's pretty much it."

Five years – seven, for Dean – compressed into just a few sentences. And yet, they're true. Simpler than reality, certainly, but there's no lies in what they said.

Jim grunts. "Farm's been doing well." And then goes into a very long spiel about the difficulties of farming. Castiel would think he's just uncomfortable, if it wasn't for the fact that Dean visibly relaxes as he listens. Jim may play at being gruff, but he's aware enough to change the subject, and Patty lets him do it. Over the next half an hour, Patty interjects explanations and interesting tidbits, including about the seasonal workers they have.

They seem to instinctually realize Dean doesn't want to talk about himself. The conversation goes from the farm, to local California politics, to the art of witchcraft (Patty apparently uses it to keep the land and crops healthy) and a few drabbles here and there into the subject of hunting, quickly dropped anytime it gets to close Dean remembering Sam, and then back again to the world of the mundane.

In a way, it feels very normal. Castiel basks in it.

They curl up to each other that night, and this time Dean is the one in need of comfort, like speaking of Sam's death made him revisit it all over again.

Castiel understands.

* * *

A week later, they've settled in.

"You're doing it wrong," Castiel states, propping his chin up with his hand.

Dishes are piled high, spilling over the right side of the sink to the counter next to it. Dean is trying to stuff the entire stack into the ancient dishwasher while Castiel watches from the kitchen table, chewing on a piece of toast. He puts it down, contemplating taking over from Dean to get the job done properly.

"I'm – no, I'm not," Dean says, and when Castiel moves to take the pot, he resists. "I know how to fill a dishwasher, Cas."

"You have to make sure the middle spot is clear so the thingie in the middle can come up during the wash."

"The thingie?" Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Yes," Castiel says, aggravated. "You know what I mean."

"It's not covered, see –"

"My dishwasher always –"

"Is this about the chili?"

"No, this isn't about the chili being too hot." Castiel rolls his eyes. "Though I told you that was too many hot chilis for a pot that size, and if you'd listened we wouldn't have had to throw it out –"

"With a ton of cheese and sour cream, it was fine! I don't know why you just won't let me take care of things, Cas, it's fine - "

Irrationally, that makes Castiel snap. "Because I'm not chained to your floor!"

Full stop. Dean flinches like he's been hit, which Castiel supposes he has. He doesn't get a chance to explain or apologize – or not apologize, he's not sure on that point – because that's when he sees Patty standing at the screen door. Their argument should have been easily audible, and judging from the way she doesn't quite look at either of them, she caught at least part of it. And quite certainly the most damning part of it.

Dean opens his mouth, and Castiel overrides him with, "Hello, Patty. What can we do for you?"

Dean goes pale. He clears his throat, and then turns with a fake smile on his face.

"I have an extra cherry pie if you want it," Patty offers. "Made too much filling, so I ended up with two."

Castiel doubts that was accidental. "Thank you, that would be lovely."

Polite smile, and Patty leaves.

Dean shuffles his feet, not looking up. "You think I'm trying to control things?"

"I think you need to be my partner, and that includes letting me make decisions. Even little, stupid ones that I never argued with before." Castiel slumps against the kitchen counter. "I don't want to feel trapped, okay?"

"You know if it's important, I'll do –"

"I don't want it out of guilt or panic, Dean, I want – I want us to be normal."

"You once said we'd never be normal."

Castiel sighs. "Then normal enough."

Dean turns away and starts loading the dishwasher. He leaves the pot out. "Of course, Cas. Whatever you want."

Castiel lets loose a frustrated growl and leaves.

He's not totally sure what he's asking for, really. He kind of knows what he _wants_ , though. He wants to feel at ease, not like he's constantly dodging mines in the minefield of their lives when arguing about the fucking dishwasher. He knows part of it is fault, whatever Dean thinks. He keeps going back to their history, and while that's understandable, it's not really all that helpful in the long run, not for what Castiel wants out of their relationship. If he wanted to just beat Dean down constantly and run both their lives, he's sure he could do that, but Castiel's never been a control freak, and he's not going to start now.

He does want normal. He'd accept normal enough.

Dean's curled up on his side on the bed, apparently asleep, by the time Castiel joins him. Dean doesn't twitch when Castiel turns Dean into the little spoon, arranging Dean's body so it molds against his comfortably. But he doesn't pull away, and that's enough for now.

* * *

There's no beach here, but Castiel makes do with boots, a high-energy dog, and a determination to skip from stone to stone if necessary. It ends up being more of a hike than a walk, but Castiel doesn't mind that. It's good to have the physical activity. His hands and feet are hurting by the time he turns around, and by the time he's back at the house his entire body feels pleasantly used.

Patty is in the yard of the main house, and Castiel, without thinking, redirects her way. He whistles and points at the little house first, though, and Aditi bounds off.

"Good morning," Castiel offers Patty.

"Morning," Patty says, and heads up the porch. "Join me?"

"I'm a stinky mess," Castiel warns.

"No less than I get from my husband daily," she says. "Come on now."

Castiel takes one of the wood chairs that sit on the porch.

"You enjoying your stay?"

"Of course. It's lovely here. And very quiet."

"You and Dean all right?"

Castiel bites his lip, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. He knows why she's asking, of course, and while he might have been able to lie to her face if she hadn't seen him and Dean fighting, that's not the situation he's in. Why lie when it would serve no purpose?

Patty eyes him. "You two seem close. But you never did say how you met."

Astute. "No, it's not a pleasant story."

"You met on a hunt?"

Castiel shakes his head. He hesitates. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to look at either of us differently."

"I'm not one to judge, honey," she says. "Really."

Castiel half smiles. "Dean's my soulmate. I was in the FBI, investigating a murder he supposedly committed – actually a hunt, but I didn't know that back then."

Patty whistles. "That _is_ complicated."

"It gets worse." Castiel pauses and then shakes his head. Too much history. And he doesn't want it tainting her view of them both. Not for Dean's sake, as much as his own. He desperately needs someone to look at them and see a relationship, and not an abusive one. He's had his fill of that, with all the late night discussions with Morgan, before and after he came back to Dean. After Dean came back to him.

"Worse how?" Patty asks, and he knows she's thinking of that line she heard about Castiel being chained to Dean's floor.

"It doesn't matter now. Well, it matters, but it's something for Dean and I to work out." He looks out at the sea. "How long have you and Jim been married?"

She lets him dodge. "Going on forty-five years. We met young."

Forty-five years. Will he and Dean be together that long? Will they still love each other as much as they do now? "How did you make it work for so long? For so many years?"

"Persistence, commitment, and patience," she answers easily. "And always coming back to each other after a screaming fight."

Castiel snorts. "Yes, I can see that being important."

"Something wrong between you and Dean? You seem very much in love, most of the time. In the way he looks at you, the way you look at him. I see it."

"You know how Dean is on the run from law enforcement?"

Patty nods.

"I'm wanted for murder, now, too. I lost everything. My former coworkers are hunting me, and my brother thinks I'm a psychopath and that I'm with a psychopath." Castiel buries his face in his hands. "Fuck. It's a fucking disaster. My life is over and I love Dean, but if he hadn't – if he hadn't interrupted my like he did, I wouldn't be here."

"You wouldn't have Dean, either."

Castiel's chest is tight. "I love him. But I'm angry at him, too."

Patty looks out, away from Castiel. She's silent for almost a full minute. "There's no easy answer to any problem in a relationship. It takes time. And communication. I can't offer more than that."

At least not without knowing more. "Thank you."

"That boy would do anything for you. Just like he did Sam."

And Dean did let Sam go, so very reluctantly, to great personal pain. He inflicted it outward, on Castiel, but he didn't intend that when he let Sam go. Castiel can forgive him for not knowing just how badly Sam's death would lead him astray. "I know."

"Stay as long as you need. And talk to Dean."

* * *

Castiel is in the bunker.

The delicate, silver cuff lies heavy on his ankle. He's standing in the kitchen. He steps forward, but his ankle refuses to move, and the fridge lies just out of reach. He's so, so thirsty, but he can't reach the fridge, so he changes his angle a little and tries to get to the sink, but four feet away – his arm stretched out, his finger flexed – is as close as he can get. His throat is parched, so much so that it hurts, it stings, and it aches. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth. He tries to call out for Dean, to help him, but he can't, his mouth is too dry, and his throat too tight.

It fades to black, and then he's in bed, and he's starving, his stomach is cramping and Dean is above him, and inside of him, and he's so thirsty and so hungry –

He wakes up with a scream.

"Cas! Holy fuck, Cas, Cas, you're okay, it's okay." Dean's voice is loud in his ear, and his arms are around Castiel's chest, half holding him in and half holding him down, and that's when Castiel realizes he's still struggling. He goes limp, panting with the effort and his lingering panic.

"Oh, God," Castiel whispers. A short, heaving and sobbing breath escapes. Then he tries to sit up, and when Dean doesn't immediately let him, he flails his entire body and shouts, "Let me go!"

Dean lets him go. "Cas, I'm not – you're free, okay, I'm not touching you –"

Castiel falls off the bed, and then scrambles to his feet. He stands there, breathing hard, and then slowly turns around.

Dean is sitting up on the bed, wearing only boxers. The sheets and blankets are rumpled, half thrown on the floor. Beyond Dean is the window, dark with a nearly moonless night. Castiel can barely see Dean's expression – one of worry and concern.

Castiel's right hand goes to his throat, not dry, his tongue not swollen, and to his stomach, not cramping and empty. "I – I need water." He stumbles out of the bedroom, his hands steadying himself on the walls, until he reaches the kitchen. He nearly knocks over the glass he picks up, and then shoves it under the tap and turns it on. Water slops out the sides, but he manages to fill it and bring it to his mouth.

Wet and refreshing, and very present and real.

He was dreaming. Castiel has to remember that, it was just a dream. Dean certainly never let him starve or suffer from dehydration.

He downs the entire glass, and puts it on the counter with a shaking hand. He wipes his mouth and turns around to see if Dean's still in bed, but he's not.

Dean is standing at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the wall and gripping the decorative arch with white knuckles. "Was it about the bunker?" Dean asks quietly.

Castiel nods.

"I'm sorry." And he is. Every time Dean apologizes, he means it as fully as the first time he recognized just how evil what he did to Castiel was.

Castiel can't make himself move or speak for a while. A few minutes? He's not sure. He stands there in the dark, to the sound of two people breathing. "Come here?"

Dean comes. He gets close enough for Castiel to touch, and then skims his fingertips along Castiel's arm, as if asking for permission to make contact.

Throat too tight for Castiel to speak, he steps forward and falls into Dean's embrace. Sure of his welcome, now, Dean enfolds Castiel, strong. It takes a few seconds for Castiel to even realize he's crying, but he is. Dean strokes his back until he calms, until he gentles.

Dean pulls back just enough to look Castiel in the eye. "Hey."

Castiel looks away. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, there's nothing to be sorry about," Dean says firmly.

"Right." Castiel nods. "Sorry for freaking you out, then."

Dean laughs, a little huff of breath. "Okay. Apology accepted. How about we have some grilled cheese? Get dressed, huddle up outside? There's a bit of moon, we could watch it on the water."

The tense wire of Castiel's body releases. He's glad Dean didn't suggest going back to bed. He has a feeling the nightmare would start where it had stopped. "That – that sounds great."

The smell of butter, bread and cheese is a comforting one. Dean grills them up quickly, with the ease of practice, and then wraps them up in foil. He helps Castiel get dressed – picking out his clothes when Castiel stares blankly at the closet – and then they both go outside, to the swing on the porch. It does face the sea, though the uneven ground means they don't see where land meets it. But the light of the moon, rippling over the water, is still visible.

Castiel curls up to Dean's side, Dean's arm around his shoulders. Half of his body is cold, but the other half is warm where it's pressed against Dean's side. He's stiff at first, but eventually his body gets the idea of what his brain wants, through sheer force of will, and he relaxes.

He eats his sandwich, the cheese still warm and stringy. Dean wads up the foil and throws it near the door.

It's not intentional, but Castiel ends up dozing until a bright ray of sunlight hits his face. "Ugh, fuck."

"How romantic," Dean says, voice amused.

Castiel blinks rapidly, squinting until his eyes adjust. "Ugh." His neck is killing him.

A gentle kiss makes him twist his head, painfully, to look at Dean.

"Hey there," Dean says.

For no reason, it hits Castiel what he needs to talk to Dean about.

"Something wrong?"

"Later," Castiel says, and snuggles in tighter.

* * *

That night, Dean falls asleep first.

It's a warmer night, so it's not strictly necessary to press his body against Dean's, but Castiel does it anyway. Dean's thoroughly asleep, so he doesn't twitch even when Castiel lets his hands wander over bare skin, pausing over scars here and there. Dean's lived such a hard life. Of course, he put Castiel through hell, too – though not literally – but as traumatizing as it was for Castiel, he still came out of it better than Dean has through his own experiences.

Castiel has always taken the brunt of organizing their emotional relationship. He lays out the boundaries – as fairly as he possibly can – and Dean follows them. Less so in the bunker, where the power imbalance and Dean's refusal to allow Castiel physical or emotional freedom endlessly caused damage to both of them. But by the time Castiel reconnected with Dean for the purpose of continuing their relationship in some fashion, he was stable enough to serve that role.

Dean can serve that role, in a pinch. He did when Castiel came to him after his initial suspension. He's done a lot of that in the past two weeks, too, while Castiel attempts to balance himself.

The stillness is broken by Dean, moaning lowly in his sleep. Castiel waits a few moments to see if it eases or increases.

Dean's whole body arcs, his head nearly hitting Castiel's face.

"Dean!" Castiel doesn't try to restrain Dean, instead he backs off to the edge of the bed, and knocks the wall. "Dean, wake up, you're only dreaming!"

It doesn't work. Dean whimpers, loud, and then in a set of jerky motions, falls off the bed. Castiel scrambles to his feet and circles around, and by the time he reaches Dean, Dean's eyes are open.

That's enough. Castiel pulls Dean close, into his arms, and Dean goes willingly.

"Nightmare?" Castiel asks, breathing into Dean's soft hair.

Dean shudders. "Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

A shake of Dean's head.

"All right. Do you want to go to bed, or get up and have some hot chocolate?"

"The latter, please," Dean says, voice muffled by Castiel's shirt.

Despite his words, Castiel doesn't immediately get up. Instead he waits for Dean to do so, which takes several minutes. This routine is something they actually established when Castiel was in the bunker. Dean rarely had nightmares when he slept in Castiel's bed, but he did have them sometimes, and usually when they would break through whatever peace Dean found in Castiel, they were pretty bad.

The kitchen light is bright and leaves Castiel blinking through rummaging in the cabinet for two mugs.

In the middle of Castiel pouring the chocolate powder in the milk, Dean says, "I have nightmares about losing you, and you have nightmares about me keeping you."

Castiel puts the second packet down, unopened. "It was actually about dying of dehydration and starvation." He looks over his shoulder.

Dean grimaces and lets his hands cover his face. "That counts."

"You dreamed about me leaving?"

"When you promised me you wouldn't, it was under different circumstances," Dean points out.

The words 'I won't leave you' come to mind, but they don't fall off his lips.

Dean stares at his hands, clasped together on the kitchen table. "That's what I thought."

"Dean, I have no intention of leaving you."

"Right now."

Castiel hesitates. He opens the second packet and dumps the contents into the mug. He stirs them both, and then puts them in the microwave for a minute and a half. "Yes, right now. I don't see that changing." He turns to face Dean. "Did you really have a screaming nightmare about that?"

Dean waves a hand. "That was the main part of it, then I went to hell."

Castiel sits and takes one of Dean's hands. "You know you don't deserve that."

Dean smiles a bit, and turns Castiel's hand over to kiss his palm. "I know you think that."

Good enough. The microwave beeps. Castiel gets up, grabs the two mugs, and places one in front of Dean and one in front of himself. He tests it, but it's still too hot.

"Can we talk about something?" Dean asks hesitantly.

"Of course."

"You said you wanted normal, or normal enough. And it never really seemed to bother you before that what we have isn't exactly … normal. Or seen that way by anyone. Is it – what do you mean by that, normal enough?"

Castiel takes a moment to pull his thoughts together. Dean's fragile, right now, he needs to say this carefully. "I don't want to be tripping over our past constantly. And I know some of that is unavoidable, but every day we have here where it's just – just Dean and Castiel, living the domestic life, that's what I need, Dean, what I want." He licks his lips, takes a sip of the hot chocolate, just barely cool enough now. "I need some kind of normal, Dean. I've lost what I had of it, and I need – I need something, do you understand?"

"Yeah, I get it." Dean bites his lip. "So, how do I do that for you? I mean, besides just acting like – like a normal couple?"

"Well." Castiel takes another sip as a delaying tactic. "I know I've been more likely to snap at you about our past, and what you did to me. And I'm sorry for that, it's been, I've been more emotional since losing my work and my brother."

Dean winces. Castiel doesn't often mention his brother Balthazar, not just because it hurts him, but because it hurts Dean, too. Dean spent so long, during Castiel's captivity, ignoring Balthazar's existence and how much Balthazar – as Castiel's older brother, just as Dean was Sam's – suffered. Now that Castiel is on the run with the man who kidnapped and raped him, and Balthazar must know by that now, it's easier not to think of the consequences of that. How much Balthazar must fear for him, all (well, mostly) unnecessary.

Castiel still thinks about telling Balthazar the truth, but then he remembers how great a burden it was for him, and he can't do it.

"And I don't think that will change, at least not immediately. So … I don't want you to just give in."

"You're saying you need me to argue with you?" Dean asks, confused.

"No, not exactly. I need you to act like my equal, not wallow in guilt."

"Kind of hard with you poking at my guilt, Cas." Dean raises an eyebrow.

"I know," Castiel says. "And I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm going to be perfect about that. I hate to say this, but sometimes you shouldn't react."

"React to the fact you're hurting because I horrifically abused you?" Dean almost shouts. He shakes his head. "No. Cas, no."

Castiel puts his mug down and leans forward. "Yes, Dean. If you get over it, that will help me get over it. Because when I do lash out like that, it hurts you so much, and then I feel guilty, and you feel guilty, and it just feels never ending." Castiel pauses. "I'm asking you to help me short circuit this pattern we're in. And this is the only way I can think of to accomplish that."

Dean stares at his hands for a long minute. "All right. But a test run. Like, a month. Then we revisit?"

"Sounds perfect, Dean."

"Anything else?" Dean sounds numb.

Castiel gets up and kneels before Dean, who blinks at him in surprise. He cups Dean's face in his hands. "I meant what I said to you before this whole mess. I want you to come to me with your problems, okay? I know I said I can't deal with your shit and mine, and that was true, but I'm doing better now. So please, don't just let things go – come to me."

Dean straightens, and shifts forward out of Castiel's hands, kissing him lightly. His shoulders have slumped into a relaxed curve. "Okay."

"I love you."

At last, Dean smiles. "I love you, too."

They putter around the kitchen for another half hour before heading back to bed. Rather than immediately go to sleep, they cuddle, which turns into Castiel lazily thrusting against Dean's knee, and before long, Castiel comes and Dean follows.

Sleep, after that, is swift and dreamless.

* * *

Their last two weeks pass like that: swift and dreamless.

Castiel spends his Dean-free time with Patty, for the most part. She has a room in her house devoted to her witchcraft, and though she has no coven, she's a good teacher. Castiel learns more about magic than all the books in the bunker and the internet were able to teach him. Much of the craft, the true craft, is passed on from person to person. The books in bookstores have enough merit to make the average person think they're real, but the spells largely have no power. Patty's do.

After the fifth joke Dean makes about Castiel being a girl, Patty suggests a bit of karma, but Castiel declines. It's just Dean being Dean.

Castiel's time with Dean is happy. Certainly is a happiness in which things cannot be spoken of without breaking it, but it is a happiness nonetheless. Castiel's brother and his new status as a fugitive remain in the background. Instead, Castiel focuses on the here and now – his life with Dean, and his new life as a hunter. What Dean taught him in the bunker and what he learned on his own are revived and given a special status in Castiel's mind. He needs to know how to hunt better than he did even when he was alone, before Morgan knew the truth.

A few days before they're due to leave – Patty invites them to stay longer, Castiel is still deciding – Dean plops the laptop in front of Castiel's slice of pie.

"I found a case. I know you're still –" Dean waves a hand around his head. "But working helps with life changing events, in my experience."

Castiel snorts. "Work." Then he pauses, more thoughtful. "Yes. Work." He grabs the laptop and opens it further.

He catches Dean's relieved smile, but doesn't comment.

* * *

Patty hugs him before he goes, and whispers in his ear, "The papers told the truth, didn't they?"

Castiel squeezes her back and doesn't answer.

* * *

There's a worn, but cared for quality to the Impala. It's not very obvious, since Dean keeps up on its maintenance – its exterior is shining and flawless, and the inside has obviously been reupholstered a few times. There's a few nicks in the leather-like covering, some of them actually stitched shut carefully and evenly. Castiel recognizes the stitching in most, but a few he doesn't. Sam's work, presumably.

It gives the car a feeling of an old house, long lived in and much loved. It's not a house, of course, but it is a home. In a way, it feels like more of one than the bunker, though he knows Dean considered the bunker his home, too.

"So, you thinking it's a spirit?" Dean asks.

Castiel shrugs. "Two people dead in locked homes could indicate a lot of things. Witchcraft, for one – we'll have to check the crime scenes for hex bags – or any kind of noncorporeal creature."

"My gut says spirit."

Castiel looks up and raises an eyebrow. "What, do you want to take bets?"

"Can we?" Dean looks hopeful.

"Dark humor has its place, Dean, but –"

"So you're saying I'm probably right."

Castiel whacks him, and Dean splutters. Castiel says, "Fine, you're on."

Dean grins at the road.

They don't stop by Nevada immediately, and instead make a detour to Utah, which Castiel insists upon. Dean and Sam made their FBI IDs in Kinkos, and flashed them and put them away quickly. Most police departments don't have any dealings with the FBI, so it will, most of the time, pass even for police officers, but Castiel doesn't see the point in taking the risk when he knows exactly how an official ID is made. Might as well do this right.

There's a warehouse there, which Castiel finds with some difficulty – the person who told him about it in the FBI wasn't too specific – and then they break in and steal special card stock.

Castiel messes with the PSD file Sam used, and they print up a set of twelve IDs the next day. Dean promises to get Castiel to the guy he bought the badges from – there's a few mistakes there Castiel would like corrected, long term.

It's just like a case. Well, it is a case. Castiel reads everything publicly available on the two men who died, alone in their locked homes. The police are saying nothing, but sources told the local press that they are baffled and have no idea how both men were stabbed to death by a disappearing weapon, leaving locked doors behind.

They pull up to the first crime scene a day after that. His suit feels tight and uncomfortable, after not wearing one for so long.

"You ready?" Dean asks.

Castiel looks at him. It's actually the first time Castiel has seen Dean in a suit, in person.

It's an incredibly loaded question. Is Castiel ready to fake the position he once held? To live a lie in what was once truth? He supposes the answer must be yes. He must be ready. He can't hide in comfortable hideouts forever, and even if Dean went along with it, Castiel would never be happy that way. "Yes."

"I'd kiss you," Dean says, "but probably not a good idea right before we talk to the sister of the dead guy."

"Good plan," Castiel says, and gets out of the car.

He takes the lead, and Dean lets him. He goes up the short set of stairs that lead to the front door, and then knocks.

A woman answers, in her fifties, gray hair. "Hello?"

Castiel shows her his badge, and Dean does the same. "FBI Agents Terrance and Jones." Dean nods in greeting. "Ms. Andrews, can we ask you a few questions about your brother?"

"FBI?" She looks taken aback. "Um, sure. I don't see why the FBI would be interested in my brother, though."

"Ongoing investigation, probably unrelated, but we're following up," Castiel says easily. "May we come in?"

"Oh. Yes, of course." And she steps aside. There's no tension in her body, either, or none beyond the usual wariness around strangers. There's a heaviness and grief there instead.

The house mimics that, as they often do. Castiel suspects the homey atmosphere would normally be very clean, but there's dirty dishes on the coffee table and socks stuffed beneath the couch.

"Um, tea, water?" Ms. Andrews asks.

"No, thank you," Castiel says. "Can you tell me about your brother? Just anything that comes to mind – what kind of person he was, his life."

She tenses up, her shoulders straightening – and then relaxes, all at once. She sighs with a smile, and says, "Doug was a great guy. A fantastic younger brother. He was always coming by and fixing up my house, making sure I was okay. And he was that way with everybody. Just real sweet, you know? I don't know why he never married, I always thought I'd be an aunt someday, and he'd be father of the year – but now –" She stops.

It's always telling how someone will start out a description of another. If the person didn't have a great character, family members will often start defensively. She didn't. "He didn't have any enemies? People who didn't like him?"

She shakes her head, then reconsiders. "He was a bully in high school. But it's been so long – going on thirty years. But he still talked about how he regretted how he acted. I don't know, I think most people in our class moved out of town, honestly. And the heat isn't for everyone. I can't imagine any of them being involved."

"Can you give me any names, just in case?" Castiel asks.

"No, sorry. I was out of high school by then."

"He didn't have any fights with neighbors?"

"No."

Castiel nods. "Did he know Gary Sonder?"

"Yeah, they went to high school together. But they didn't have anything to do with each other after that. Doug went away to college, and he refused to go the reunion last year."

The rest of the conversation ends up being pretty standard fare. Castiel asks a lot of questions about Doug's last weeks of life, all kinds of details about his mood, his work, times he visited her and his behavior back then. He asks if anything else unusual happened, no matter how small and insignificant it seems, and she mentions nothing suspicious or supernatural.

Dean looks antsy by the end. When Ms. Andrews leaves to get herself water, he leans in and asks, "Are you going to ask about, you know, the weird parts of the case? Slashed to pieces, no weapon, locked doors?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't think she's hiding those kinds of details, and I'd rather not set her off. I think this has to do with Doug and Gary's history. People first, Dean."

"Not weird first?"

"Weird second," Castiel says.

They leave with promises of doing their best to investigate her brother's murder, and bundle into the car.

Dean's pulling away when Castiel asks, "Did I do okay?"

The car jerks. Dean looks over. "Cas – of course, of course you did. Handled it better than I do, asked a lot more questions than I do. And I get what you mean about people first, going from who the victim is to who did the deed. You know? Even when it's a ghost, there's usually a reason. It does all come down to people, I guess, even the weirdest shit."

Castiel relaxes. "Okay."

* * *

Gary Sonder ends up being a lot more interesting. His neighbors all assert that he was a drug dealer, something not released to the press. He also finds out the cops have been called because of domestic disputes, though they can't offer more than that – no names. It's harder, because Gary disconnected from most of his family and his friends are, well, also drug dealers, but Castiel is able to get a sense of who Gary was. In highschool, when he knew Doug, he was on a good path – he ran track well enough that his parents thought he'd get a college scholarship. But in the last year of highschool, he started doing drugs, and in a matter of months he dropped out, never to return to school. He drifted away from his parents shortly after that. They had been sad, but resigned when Castiel and Dean spoke to them. Dean handled their interview, for the most part, with Castiel adding questions here and there.

That kind of life change doesn't happen in a vacuum. Something happened. Either to Gary Sonder, or something Gary Sonder did to another.

Considering, Castiel feels fairly willing to bet on the latter. He's also willing to bet, so to speak, that Doug was in on it, whatever it was – whoever it was – and simply reacted differently. He believes the homicide detectives think this was a case of drug deal gone bad, but that doesn't account for Doug's death.

He and Dean are going to break into the second crime scene, Gary's home, but Castiel puts his hand on Dean's arm when he moves to get out of the Impala.

"What?" Dean asks.

"That's an undercover cop car."

"It doesn't have a guard on the front," Dean comments, taking a quick look.

"No, but it does have an extra antenna on the hood. Come on."

He gets out and jogs over to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. He walks almost as if he's going to keep going, and then casually leans over and taps on the car window.

The window rolls down. A man, looking irritated, says, "We're waiting on someone." He's a detective, most likely. Castiel can see a slight bulge at his waist, where a gun most likely lays.

Castiel flashes his badge. His fake badge. He'd been nervous, but in a weird way, this feels so familiar that even in a different context he doesn't feel anxious – like he probably should be. "We think this might be connected to a federal RICO case. I personally think it's unlikely, but I've got to do my due diligence. Give me your files and don't make me wade through the mess of red tape, and I'll get out of your hair faster, okay?"

The detective blinks, and takes a much longer look at Castiel.

Castiel waits. Dean fidgets behind him.

The detective sighs. "Fine. Drop by the precinct, we'll have a copy of our file ready. Ask for Detective Sanchez. Now go away." The window rolls back up.

"Let's go," Castiel says to Dean.

"Can't exactly break in while the cops are watching us," Dean agrees. "Good bullshitting there, by the way."

"I know exactly what a cop doesn't want when a fed comes along," Castiel says dryly. "From both sides. He doesn't want a federal investigation messing up a probably year-long plus investigation into the local drug dealers."

"You know going to the police station is a bad idea, if we can avoid it."

Castiel glances at Dean. He hasn't forgotten his situation, he wonders if Dean thinks he has. "Yes. But asking them to drop them off at a random hotel room would look odd. I don't want them looking twice at us, or asking our 'superiors' what we're up to."

Dean nods. "Since we can't get to the crime scene, why don't we try to figure out what happened thirty years ago?"

Castiel considers. "I'll make some phone calls to the people we already spoke to. Why don't you check out the library –"

"Can we switch?" Dean asks with a wince. "I hate library research." He waggles his eyebrows. "And I happen to know you don't. Hate it entirely, anyway."

"Think of a way to make it up to me, then," Castiel says lightly.

"Done."

The librarian happily leaves Castiel with a computer that has digital copies of every local newspaper going back fifty years. It was part of a project she spearheaded ten years ago, way before most public agencies even considered trying to digitize their material. He thanks her repeatedly. She's made his job a lot easier.

It's not the name of either victim that catches Castiel's attention, though. It's the suicide of a girl in the same year of highschool, and her best friend (not named, frustratingly, because she was a minor) telling the reporter that she killed herself because she was gang-raped.

Her death lines up almost perfectly with Gary Sonder's slow degradation into a criminal. Or, perhaps the reveal of his true nature. Doug Andrews came across as a good guy to everyone who knew him, but his sister said he felt guilty for being a bully in highschool. He somehow thinks just being a bully wouldn't be affecting his conscience thirty years down the line.

Just to be sure, he goes through the rest of the year. Then he texts Dean, who dropped him off at the library.

He gets a reply momentarily: _Got it. I've got a few left to call, will ask. Pick you up?_

 _Meet me at the Starbucks around the corner_ , Castiel texts back. He prints the pages needed, and hops off to do just that.

By the time Dean walks through the door, Castiel is sitting at a table with two steaming hot coffees. Dean nods at the doorway, and Castiel joins him. They walk to the Impala, and sit. Best not to have this discussion in public.

"So, do I win?" Dean asks.

"Not yet. We don't know if it was an angry spirit or a friend of the girl in question."

"Thirty years is a long time to wait for revenge," Dean points out.

"It is, but anything could have triggered the killer – a change in his or her own life circumstances being the most likely. If you were diagnosed with cancer, knowing you were going to die, would you do something illegal in the name of justice, now that you had nothing to lose?" Castiel shrugs. "People are funny that way. I can't tell you how many serial killers snap over something mundane."

"So, we track down everyone who knew this Stacey Dallen?" Dean asks.

"Starting with the friend who talked to the reporter," Castiel agrees. "You still think it could be a spirit? As you said, it's been thirty years. Wouldn't she get revenge sooner rather than later?"

"Because it's been thirty years," Dean says after a moment. "Ghosts eventually lose the ability to think or reason – they just relive whatever kept them from crossing over. That can happen for decades. And after that they get vicious, unthinking, violent. Even the nicest person will eventually turn into a violent spirit." He shrugs. "Much as those guys would deserve to be killed, if they were the assholes who raped her, if she's gone violent she needs to be freed from her connection to this world, because she might start lashing out against innocent people."

It's a sad thought, that Stacey's spirit will turn evil simply because of the evil done to her, so long ago. "Do ghosts that are released like that go to heaven?"

Dean says, "I think so. Mom did."

"Your mother?" Castiel blinks.

"She was haunting our old house, the one she died in," Dean says, shrugging, though his eyes pinched. "Anyway, she saved us and the family living there from a poltergeist, and she moved on. Anna told me later she was in heaven, so yeah, I guess so."

Castiel hesitates. "I'm sorry. That must have been difficult."

"Dude, it's been fifteen years. I'm okay." Dean smiles at him. "Really. That happened the first year Sam was back with me – so it's been a long time."

Castiel doesn't want to kiss Dean in public, but he does take Dean's hand. "Let's start finding Stacey's friends, then."

* * *

It's almost nine at night by the time they finally find someone who knew Stacey.

Her parents are gone, moved out of the state, and apparently didn't leave a forwarding address or any friends behind – none that they kept talking to, anyway. So Dean and Castiel go through the yearbook and then the yellow book, trying to find someone by sheer persistence, and whenever they hit upon someone they investigate everyone that person knows from highschool, and so on and so on.

Cold cases suck.

"Cold cases suck," Dean says. "And of course, they tend to be really common in hunting." Sigh.

Castiel smiles into his water. "I say we call it for the night." They're in their motel room, with its two beds – one has their stuff on it, one is for sleep – with a mess of takeout and paper plates and water bottles between them. Castiel will drink soda, but not on a daily basis, and Dean always accommodates.

"Yeah. They were killed a week apart, we've still got a couple of days, if she strikes again." Dean pauses. "Though all considering, might want to wait."

"Unless said spirit – and we're not sure we're dealing with a spirit, it could be someone who knew Stacey – has gone mad from being a ghost for thirty years."

"You know I –" Dean turns to face him, and just as abruptly he stops. "Fucking hell."

"What? Did you realize something about the case?"

"No. I – shit, Cas. I just joked about letting a rapist be revenge killed _to the man that I raped._ "

Cognitive dissonance. "It's hardly the same thing. And I don't want you dead, you know that."

Dean doesn't entirely buy it. It's visible in the mingled grief and horror on his face and the way he wipes his eyes, which are dry but reddened. It fades, though, into a sad sort of contemplation. "You know, for years after hell it'd just hit me all at once the evil shit I'd done. Just, something totally random reminding me. Or a case, or a dead body and the way it'd been mauled and I'd remember how I used to – " Dean stops, and Castiel can almost see him editing, "how I used to torture. For years. It eased off eventually, until it was like, once a year or so." He looks up at Castiel. "I feel like a piece of shit that the same thing is happening to what I did to you."

Castiel puts down his water and sits on the bed next to Dean. "Dean, that's exactly what I want. I don't want your guilt. I want you."

"But what if my guilt is the only thing that stops me? From turning into that monster who kidnapped you again?"

"It's not," Castiel says simply. "I know it's not. You were never an evil person, Dean, even if you did evil things, in hell and out of it. We are defined by our actions, yes, but those wrong things you did are hardly the whole of your actions. I love you, who you are in total." He pauses, but Dean says nothing. "Do you understand?"

"You have a lot of faith in me," Dean whispers.

"As far as I am concerned, you have earned it."

"Not to anyone else."

"They don't know you like I do." He cups Dean's jaw. "Are you done?" With the implication he should be.

"Yeah. Yeah. Normal, right?"

"And not wallowing in guilt." Castiel kisses Dean, just the barest brush of dry lips.

Dean deepens the kiss and holds Castiel close. "The future, right?" he says, finally getting it.

"Come to bed," Castiel says, an invitation and a comfort, and Dean obeys.

* * *

The alarm on Castiel's phone goes off at six thirty sharp.

Castiel curls up into Dean's armpit, which since he showered before bed last night, has only the sweat of the sex they'd had, rubbing off on each other before dropping off into a deep sleep. He manages to ignore the irritating noise, content to stay warm and comfortable, but Dean groans and starts shifting around.

"This is all your fault," Dean mutters. "Too early."

Castiel sighs into Dean's warm skin. "Sorry."

The alarm continues going off for another minute, and then Dean finally shifts away and sits up, snatching the cell and turning it off. He stretches, the muscles in his back beautifully defined, and then sits up, naked. It gives Castiel a spectacular view of Dean's ass. Then Dean is padding off to the bathroom, and Castiel admits to himself it's time to get up. He takes care of Aditi's needs first, to do her business and a walk. Dean's been very good about finding rest stops where she can around, but she tends to get restless in motel rooms.

Dean leaves while Castiel is brushing his teeth, and returns shortly afterward with a greasy bag of breakfast fast food.

Castiel gets dressed, though most likely the first part of their day will be more phone calls.

Dean puts a plate of food in front of Castiel, eyeing him with a strange nervousness. "You, um, are you okay?"

Castiel blinks at him. "Yes?"

"I mean, this case – this girl, she was raped. So I mean …"

It takes Castiel a moment to get his point. "Dean, I've been on multiple cases that involved rape since I escaped. I'm fine."

"Okay. Okay, just checking."

Clearly, Dean has not put last night out of his mind. Not entirely, anyway. Castiel isn't really surprised by that, though he didn't expect Dean to actually bring it up. Dean's been very careful to accede to Castiel's wishes about not bringing up the past. Castiel doesn't think that Dean gets it yet, that to be together in a healthy way Castiel has to not just forgive Dean, but actually move on. If he weren't with Dean, it wouldn't be an issue – that anger could stay, woken only when Dean is brought to mind – but living with Dean with that kind of anger would be impossible. Castiel doesn't want that.

It's not necessary to forget the past, but it is necessary for it not to be the first thing that springs to mind.

They start calling people at eight in the morning. By ten, they have a name for the girl who spoke to the reporter about Stacey, thirty years ago.

Dean grins at Castiel. "Finally!"

"Wear the gray suit," Castiel suggests.

Dean blinks.

"It complements your eyes."

"Now I know you're gay," Dean says gravely, and Castiel throws a pillow at his head.

* * *

Her name is Allison.

She is married, has three adult children, and is completely willing to speak to them about Stacey. Her home is in the suburbs, a comfortable little one story, and she greets them at the door with a wide smile. She's blond and very petite, but Castiel sees a strength in her spine, in the way she meets their gaze with a bit of a challenge. "Come in," she says. "Sorry about the mess. One of my daughters has a three year old, and he's a real tiger."

Castiel and Dean step over toys and a mat designed to look like a road. "No problem," Dean says easily. They sit.

Castiel waits for Allison to sit as well before asking, "Did you know Gary Sonder and Doug Andrews?"

Allison sighs. "Yes. Did they finally admit what they did?"

"You knew it was them who hurt Stacey?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, she told me. But by the time I had the courage to go to the police, it was the past the statute of limitations. And Doug was a well liked guy by then. They just told me to go home, those bastards."

"Did anyone else know?"

Allison shakes her head.

Castiel has a sudden suspicion. "Did you hear that they were both murdered, a week apart?"

"They're dead?" Allison's eyes are wide. "Wow. She must have finally done it."

"Who?" Dean asks, leaning forward.

Despite the fact she just admitted she knows the murderer of those two men, Allison just looks back at him calmly. And proves why with her next words: "Stacey, of course."

"What do you mean?" Castiel asks. "Stacey Dallen killed Gary Sonder and Doug Andrews?"

"Her spirit did." Allison gets up and goes to a nearby desk, pulling out a drawer. She shifts through some papers, and then comes back with a photograph. She hands it to Dean.

Dean raises his eyebrows, and hands it to Castiel.

It's a picture of a birthday party. A boy, eight years old according to the birthday cake, is sitting at a dining table about to blow out his candles. Behind him stands Stacey, a sad smile on her face. Castiel can see the bookcase behind her, through her.

"Stacey's been with me all these years," Allison says softly. "Watching me get married, have kids, do all the things she never did." She tilts her head, staring at the photo. "I've got others, though that's the clearest one of her. She's never been violent, though, never scary. My kids used to say they could feel her, but they always felt safe around her. I tried to go online, find some stuff to get her to go through the veil, but it didn't work."

Unless Stacey's unfinished business was resolved, only a reaper could have done that. Castiel nods, examining the photo again. "You thought she would one day take her revenge?"

"You don't think I'm crazy?"

"I prefer to know everything before making that determination," Castiel says. "And I've seen some things. Even FBI agents can believe in ghosts, Allison."

She relaxes. "I haven't seen her in quite some time, though. My knickknacks have all been in place, not moved around. She liked to look at my kids' photos, and those have all been untouched for years."

Dean nods. "Do you know where she was buried?"

"Of course. Visit her ever year. Green Valley Memorial. Why?"

Castiel says, "It's not important. You said you knew it was Doug and Gary. Was it only the two of them that hurt Stacey? Or were there more?"

"She only mentioned the two of them, not that I talked to her a lot before, well. Before."

"Thank you," Dean says. He hands her his card. "If you think of anything else … if Stacey comes back, let us know."

Allison takes the card and glances at it. "Not the X-Files division?" she asks, mouth quirking into a half smile.

"I wish," Dean says, snorting. "Have a good day, Mrs. Cadely."

Dean gets in the car first, hands on the wheel, and Castiel follows. Dean doesn't put his keys into the ignition, just sits there, frowning.

"Not happy you won?" Castiel ventures.

Dean looks over at him. "Oh, I'm happy about that. Not about everything else. Sad case, Cas."

"At least Stacey has finally gotten her justice. And like you said, she's most likely going to move onto heaven when we prevent her from staying linked to this plane."

"Silver lining kind of guy, huh Cas?"

"Often enough," Castiel says with a shrug. "I assume we need to wait for evening before taking care of her."

Dean exhales roughly. "Yeah. What do you want to do in the meantime?"

Castiel considers. The idea has been simmering in the back of his mind since the little house next to the sea. "I need to pick up a burner cell, possibly some other supplies."

Dean's hands on the steering wheel tighten. "For your brother?"

"I need to know how he's doing," Castiel says quietly. "I need to know. For one phone call, on the road – on the way out of a big city – with the precautions I know how to take, I think I can do it safely."

"Of course, Cas, I'd never say don't do it. He's your brother." Dean's mouth twists, but his next words are calm and measured. "Let me know if you need any help with it, okay?"

Castiel knows that Dean is thinking about all the times he's tried to ignore Balthazar, tried to ignore the pain he knew Balthazar was feeling for his little brother. It's fair to say Dean probably still is, on some level. It probably turns into a never-ending cycle if he does let himself think about it, comparing Castiel to Sam, and himself to Balthazar, and the immense guilt that follows. Balthazar would probably be happy about that. "I will."

The system Castiel intends to use was the same one he used to speak to Dean originally. It's not flawless, but it will cause enough confusion, combined with other tactics, that Castiel thinks he can get away with it.

Dean manages to act normally throughout Castiel's purchases. Then they drive by the cemetery, note any security, and go back to the motel to plan the final part of Castiel's first real hunt.

Night falls around seven.

Castiel and Dean dress in black, load up themselves with guns – Castiel with a sawed off shotgun with salt shells, and Dean with the same – then the Impala, and then at last they leave.

The night is cool. When Dean parks and Castiel exits, keeping a cautious eye out for private security – unlikely, but possible – his breath fogs up the air just the tiniest bit. Castiel figures it's a good thing. Empty graves aren't dug up by human hands anymore, and they don't skimp on the footage, but full graves – not quite so true. Castiel did this once, during his captivity, during the second time Dean took him out of the bunker, certain Castiel would not flee. Certain enough, anyway.

But this feels different, in so many ways. Castiel doesn't have the cuff on anymore, of course. He's free to leave at any time, and he knows Dean wouldn't stop him. This is a hunt they did together, from start to finish, and they both go into with a sense of grief for the woman whose bones they will burn. It's not about them, not about Dean hunting with Castiel, really. It's about her, and that makes all the difference.

There's half a moon in the sky, which is helpful. They debated breaking into the office to make the search easier, but the cemetery isn't a huge one, so they decide not to take the risk.

Castiel and Dean walk about twenty or thirty feet apart, checking tombstones and markers as they go. Castiel finds himself wondering if they could train Aditi to go on hunts with them. She's a working breed, after all.

"Found her." Dean's voice is startling in the silence. When Dean turns towards Castiel, it makes his face fall into darkness, so all Castiel can make out is the shape of Dean's eyes. "I'll make a salt circle. You stand watch."

Castiel doesn't argue with the order. He's not the one who had to carry the huge sack of salt. He gets out his shotgun and keeps his eyes and ears open.

The circle Dean makes is probably fifteen feet in diameter, big enough to hold a grave, two men, and a large pile of dirt. When Dean completes it, Castiel relaxes a little. It's not a perfect protection, but it's not a bad one, either.

Digging up a grave is hard work. Dean starts stretching. Castiel waits, because while Dean digs, he'll stretch so he's warmed up by the time Dean needs a break.

They switch off every fifteen minutes, long enough to give a break but short enough their muscles don't go cold.

Five feet in, the wind picks up. Dean stops shoveling, eyeing the salt circle warily.

"You think that's her?" Castiel asks.

"Might be. Keep an eye on the circle. And keep your gun ready."

Not thirty seconds later, the wind becomes a gust. Castiel doesn't even have time to bring him his gun before the circle is broken, and then something grabs his ankle. "Fuck!" And then he's off of his feet, being dragged across the ground face first. Dirt and small rocks kick up with him, running roughshod across his skin. He kicks, but something unmovable has his ankle, and it doesn't work. His gun skitters across the grass.

He can see the cemetery passing by, but there's nothing at his ankle when he manages to flip himself over. He gets his gun up anyway and fires a salt round at that blank space.

Full stop. Castiel lays there, panting, eyes darting around. Moonlight reflects off of a shiny marker, but there's nothing else.

"Cas!" Dean is screaming his name, over and over. "Cas!"

"Here!" Castiel calls weakly.

A few seconds later Dean arrives, gun in one hand and reaching out for Castiel with the other. "Shit, your face. Did you get her?"

"I shot at where I thought she was, and I got dropped." Castiel grimaces and feels it pull on small injuries to his face. "Help me up. We need to get back."

Dean pulls Castiel to his feet. Miraculously, his ankle isn't even sprained, though the rest of his body isn't doing as well. He keeps his hand at Castiel's elbow as they start walking back to Stacey's grave. "You stand guard. I brought a lot of extra ammo, fire out every few minutes, it should keep her distracted. Don't take any chances. If you feel like she's there, fire."

"Got it."

The quiet of the cemetery seems ominous now instead of peaceful. Castiel's as tense as if he were balancing on a knife's edge, and Dean's digging has sped up, despite how tired Castiel knows he is.

A face, ghostly and white, appears. Castiel doesn't wait for more than that before firing. The shot is loud in his ears, but her scream is even louder. Still, she vanishes, leaving Castiel behind, panting with adrenaline.

Castiel sees something out of the corner of his eye, and turns. Stacey is there, standing over Dean, hand reaching out. He fires again.

She screams and dissolves into nothing.

"Thanks," Dean grunts, and keeps digging.

The next time she appears, she does so much closer to Dean, and she rakes a hand down Dean's back – Dean arches and screams – and Castiel fires, too late, too late. "Fuck, are you okay?"

Dean groans and throws Castiel the shovel. "Finish it off, I can't with my back." Then he holds his hand up for Castiel to help him out.

Castiel hops into the hole and digs. It's a matter of minutes, though, when he reaches the coffin. "Almost there!" He starts clearing off the remainder of the dirt and then scrambles for the lid.

"Cas, wait!"

Castiel looks up and Dean throws him a crow bar. It turns out to be wise, though of course it is – Castiel has to put almost all his weight behind it in order to open up the coffin. When he pulls it back, he hears another shot, and wonders if he's going to be keeping his hearing after this. Inside is a skeleton, in a white dress, hands placidly crossed. Castiel pauses for just a moment to say, "I'm sorry," and then he hops out of the grave.

Dean, shotgun still in one hand, pours down gasoline. Castiel pours salt on top of it. And then Dean throws down a lit match.

Silence, save for the crackling of a fire. She's gone, and Castiel feels inexplicably sad about that.

There's a gentle touch to Castiel's elbow. "You okay?"

Castiel looks at Dean. "Are you? She got your back, how deep?"

"Not that deep," Dean says, with an aborted shrug and a grimace.

"I'll fill it back up," Castiel says. "You sit and rest."

"Your face and arm aren't looking too good either, Cas."

"It hurts, but it won't affect my ability to throw some loose dirt in a hole," Castiel points out.

Dean sits on the ground, shotgun loose in his lap. "All right. But we could leave if –"

"I want to bury her," Castiel interrupts. "She deserves that."

Dean nods slowly. "Yeah."

Castiel takes the shovel.

It took more than three hours to dig Stacey's grave up – and that's by two in-shape men – but it takes less than an hour to fill it again, because the dirt is no longer compacted into the ground where it's sat for years. Replacing the grass is a sloppy process, but Castiel does his best. He really doesn't want Stacey's parents to get the call that their daughter's grave was desecrated. He scatters what's left of the salt circle and then helps Dean to his feet.

They walk back to the car silently, hand in hand.

The adrenaline that kept Castiel from really noticing his scrapes and bruises is fading, and holding Dean's hand keeps him grounded, keeps him steady.

The motel is empty of people, so no one sees them stumble into their room bloody and dirty.

Dean checks the wards and then starts stripping everything off, starting with his shoes and ending with his boxers, until he stands there naked. Castiel takes a moment to admire the view, despite the blood on his back, and then does the same. Dean gets the first aid kit out of his duffel and plops it on the bed.

He turns to Castiel. "So, let me see."

Castiel looks at his arms and twitches his face. "Feels pretty minor, except for bruises, and there's not much to be done about that." His hip feels like a giant bruise, and when he looks, yes, there's a slowly darkening purple bruise there about four inches wide.

"Jeez, Cas, you could have really gotten hurt." Pause. "You could have died."

Castiel's not exactly sure how it happens, but one moment he's staring into Dean's green eyes, and the next they're kissing like both their lives depend on it. Dean's mouth pushes against his with so much force it actually hurts for a moment, and then Castiel is letting him in, opening his mouth to Dean's tongue, returning wet kisses with light bites.

Dean's hands are on his back, running from his spine to his glutes and then cupping the fleshy part of his ass. Castiel's intent on returning the favor, but he touches Dean's sides with long, firm strokes, from the slight dip of his waist to the hairy part of his thighs, and then inward, finding Dean's cock fully erect. So is he, he realizes, just when Dean's hand curls around his cock and strokes, hard, thumbing the head.

He doesn't bother not reacting. He thrusts into Dean's hand and lets his own hands dip below Dean's cock, fondling his balls while Dean moans, breath hot, into his mouth.

"Fuck me," Castiel whispers, hoarse with want.

Dean bites his jaw. "No, can't, can't, you're not ready, fuck me."

Castiel withdraws enough to look Dean in the eye. He knows what he wants, wants it with a desperate clarity he's been aching for. "I want to ride your cock." Then he remembers Dean's back. "Fuck. Wait –"

But Dean's eyes widen. "I don't give a fuck about my back, are you sure?"

Castiel leans in and whispers into Dean's ear, "I'm going to hold you down on that bed, and fuck myself on you, and there's nothing you can do about it. Is there? Nothing you _will_ do, is there?"

A shudder runs with Dean. He stumbles away from Castiel and lays down on the bed, not even wincing when his scratched back hits the sheets. "Lube, lube, my pack – there's lube." He pants, licking his lips, staring at Castiel.

Castiel shoves through Dean's bag with reckless abandon until he finds the tube. Then he stalks to Dean, throws one leg over Dean's hip and settles there. Dean stays prone, body twitching with the desire to get up and meet Castiel. All Castiel has to do is give him a look, and Dean stays, even his hands at his sides. There's blood smeared around Dean's sides, from the injuries on his back, but it's not care that Castiel feels looking at it, but possessiveness. Dean is his, his.  
"Touch yourself," Castiel orders.

Dean's hands fly to his cock. He's stroking himself hard, much harder than Castiel usually does.

"Open your hand."

Dean does so, and Castiel puts a glob of lube in it. Dean moans this time when his hands return to his cock, fingers stroking the rim of the head and then his slit. Castiel gets a glob of his own on his right hand, and then reaches behind himself, pushing one finger in his ass. It feels good. Full. Doesn't hurt. He adds another and finally feels the stretch, but his body is ready and aching, and it doesn't take long for him to add a third, awkward with the angle. He's opened the rim of his hole, but not really any deeper; it's going to sting when he pushes down on Dean's cock, but he doesn't care. He wants to feel it. He wants to feel everything.

"Stop. Hands at your sides."

Dean obeys.

And then Castiel slowly, slowly sits on Dean's cock, just the tip at first, letting it spread his hole open, sinking down just an inch. He stays there for a moment, watching Dean more than paying attention to his own body.

Dean looks – like he's in ecstasy. Drowning in the moment and his pleasure, not his physical pleasure at his own touch, Castiel knows that instinctively, but the pleasure in having Castiel here and in his bed, desiring his body and wanting him, the individual. Dean. And it's true; Castiel couldn't bear to do this with anyone else, and even after the fact and with all the myriad ways he felt screwed up with regards to sex, he never really looked at his first time being fucked as a traumatic memory. For all the lack of consent inherent in his entire time as Dean's prisoner, he never wanted to look at it that way. He wanted to keep it as it was, a sharing of intimacy.

This feels more like than that. Dean is so ready and waiting, and Castiel might be the one being fucked but he's the one in charge, and they both know it.

Castiel sinks down until his ass meets Dean's pelvis. It burns, burns so sweetly he doesn't care.

Dean reaches out, touching Castiel's face. Castiel doesn't know why until he sees Dean's hand, sees the blood there, and then Dean licks it up.

A surge of sexual desire slams into Castiel, and he reacts by lifting himself up, and slamming himself back down on Dean's cock. Dean's hand flops to the side as he moans, and then his restless hands go to Castiel's hips, already moving up again, and then down.

Dean meets each downward thrust with a movement upwards with his hips, not really fighting to get deeper as much as to get closer. Castiel's hard cock bobs with his fucking.

"Can I touch you?" Dean whispers, hoarse already.

"Yes, yes, do it," Castiel moans, and then Dean's hand is wrapping around his cock. The sensation makes Castiel tip forward a little bit, and his next thrust downward makes Dean's cock his prostate, lighting him up with pleasure. His thighs aching and straining, he repeats the motion, the tip of Dean's cock hitting him there again and again. "Don't come, don't come," Castiel orders, "not until I tell you to. Until I've had my fill. Do you understand?"

Dean nods, breathless.

And that's how Castiel rides him, focusing on his own pleasure, on how good it feels to be filled up with Dean's cock, so much better than any toy. He rides Dean until he feels the pleasure rising to an inescapable degree, until he knows he's about to come.

"When I come," Castiel pants, "flip me onto my back and fuck me until you do."

Dean doesn't get a chance to reply. Castiel whites out with his orgasm. He does feel the shift in gravity when Dean throws him over onto his back, lifts up his legs, and thrusts back into Castiel's body. It rocks Castiel's limp, sated body against the headboard, his head hitting it just hard enough to bring him back to reality, and he watches the last few thrusts before Dean comes. Dean's back arches and his mouth falls open, hips moving minutely with each jet of semen, and then he's done.

They're both done.

Dean stays inside of him, barely holding himself up over Castiel. He pants, wordless, eyes closed. He falls to his elbows, close enough to touch, and Castiel does, mindful of Dean's no doubt very irritated cuts. Dean is softened and falls out, and then he collapses by Castiel's side.

They've made a complete mess of themselves and the bed, and yet Castiel can't help but feel incredibly satisfied. Even his cuts and bruises are humming.

Dean reaches over with his left hand, fingers skimming across the cuts Castiel knows are on his face. "We should take care of this."

"And your back," Castiel says with a sigh. "Are you okay?" The sheets beneath him are smeared with blood, though not a huge amount.

Dean grins at him. "Totally, totally worth it."

The scratches on Dean's back turn out not to be as bad as Castiel had feared. They're less than a quarter inch deep, and he ends up binding them with surgical glue. Castiel's injuries need only disinfectant and time to heal. They end up moving to the other bed for the night, and leave the showers for tomorrow.

There's probably some discussion that needs to occur tomorrow as well. Dean didn't mind Castiel taking charge and issuing orders in the moment, but Castiel can't say what Dean's reaction will be later. Probably positive, but their sex life is still a sea of mines, so Castiel would rather be certain.

Sleep comes easily, Dean's skin warm against his own.

* * *

Castiel chooses Salt Lake City to make his phone call. There's a huge network of freeways in and around Salt Lake, so if they are able to trace his phone call, it will be a mystery which way Castiel and Dean went to evade police. Castiel doesn't think it will be too difficult, though – even if they can trace the call, it will take a lot more work than that to get the Salt Lake police to shut down roads and start searching cars, and they'll already be on their way by that point.

Dean's baby, the Impala, sits half a state away. The car they're in is stolen, with stolen plates.

He and Dean ride around while Castiel pings towers, trying to get a good sense of where their coverage begins and ends. He wants a powerful tower, and he wants only one to ping the phone during the call. If more than one pings his phone, and they do trace it, they'd have a trajectory, and that would make siccing the police on them a lot easier.

They stop in a small field, eventually, when Castiel gives the word. He goes to his second cell, the burner with all the precautions built in. He doubts they'll be able to trace further than the tower, especially if he keeps it short.

Castiel sits in the beige car, staring at that burner. His hand trembles.

"However this goes, Cas, I'm here for you," Dean says simply, from the driver's seat.

"Do you think I should do this?" What if Balthazar rejects him?

Dean hesitates. "Yeah, I think you should. You and him – you're too close just to cut things off, even if you think it's for his own good. He needs to hear from you." Dean shrugs. "And I think you need to hear from him."

"Right. Okay." It's a Sunday, so Balthazar should be home, prepping for Monday's class. He dials.

 _"Hello?"_

All of his breath leaves Castiel in a rush. It takes him a moment to gather enough air to speak. "Hello, Bal."

There's a loud clatter on the other end. _"Cassie! Cassie, oh God, Cassie, are you okay? Tell me, are you okay – shit, are you calling me from jail?"_

Castiel has to laugh, though it's a reasonable assumption. "No, I'm not. I'm okay, Bal."

 _"Oh, thank God. Can you talk? Is this, like a thirty second only phone call or something?"_

"We have a few minutes, assuming I did everything right and they can't trace me properly." And what will Balthazar say, to his FBI agent turned murderer and fugitive brother?

There's a short silence. _"Did you do it, Cassie?"_

It could be a trap. The FBI wanting him to confess. But he doesn't think so. "Yes. I did it."

A sharp inhale. Balthazar says, _"Then I know you had a damn good reason for it."_

Tears spring to Castiel's eyes at his brother's apparently limitless well of faith. "I did. I – I can't explain it, not right now, but there was a life at stake."

 _"Why did – are you with that psychopath?"_

A loaded question, but one that Castiel knows he can't dodge. "Yes. But he's not – I'm not his prisoner. I know it sounds crazy, but he's changed." Castiel pauses. "I've been talking to him for a while, Bal. Before he went to prison and after he escaped. He never once tried to hurt me."

 _"Fuck. Fuck. I knew it, you were acting so oddly when you came back from disappearing for three days, that's where you were – Cas! You know that isn't safe, you have to keep yourself safe!"_

"I am. And he knows how to run and hide, and I need that. I had a good reason for what I did, but the judicial system will never see it that way." Castiel glances at Dean, who looks back at him expectantly. "Honestly, I think Dean would blow his brains out before he hurt me again."

 _"He could do it now and make sure."_

Unable to help himself, Castiel cracks a smile. The fact that Balthazar hasn't changed a whit is reassuring. And out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean nodding. "Please believe me."

 _"I wish I could, Cassie. I mean, I believe you that you had to kill that guy and run, but that asshole? Dean Winchester?"_ Balthazar never uses Dean's name, and it makes Castiel start. _"You'll never be safe as long as he lives. I talked to him, Cassie, did you know that? While you were his prisoner? He spouted all this bullshit about loving you, but he doesn't, he can't, he's a psychopath."_

Dean is just sitting by Castiel, waiting. Castiel stares at him for a long moment before responding. "I know this just sounds like I'm losing my mind, but Bal, I promise I'm not. I wish I could explain – maybe I could someday – but please trust me. He's not holding me prisoner. He's not hurting me. He's not a psychopath and he's not crazy." Not about what the FBI thinks he's crazy about, anyway. "I have to go. I love you, Bal."

 _"I love you,"_ Balthazar says roughly. _"I love you so much, Cassie. Please, take care of yourself first, before him, before me, before everybody."_ And then, with unexpected strength, Balthazar takes the horrible moment of leaving his brother out of Castiel's hands by hanging up.

Castiel puts the phone down, turns it over, and pops out the battery. Dean starts the car and pulls away.

Dean clears his throat. "So what did he say?"

"He's worried, mostly about me being with you. But he believes I had a good reason for the murder." That part is an intense relief. He hadn't realized until now how much it would have hurt for Balthazar to think less of him.

"That's good. Both things." Dean smiles at him, a strange and quiet smile.

Castiel puts his hand on Dean's thigh. "I don't expect you'll ever have to hurt yourself to protect me, you know."

"I know, Cas. But I think it's a good thing there's someone who wants me dead for your sake."

It sounds twisted. Maybe it is. But Castiel chooses to let it go. He doesn't think Dean is worried about a relapse into abusive behavior, exactly. Dean would kill himself before he went as far as he did, kidnapping Castiel and holding him prisoner long term. Castiel truly believes that. But Dean worries more about the small things, the small ways he could hurt Castiel, like the way Dean had tried to take over and order Castiel around on their first hunt together. The beginnings of the vampire organization case did not go swimmingly for the both of them. But Castiel thinks they've come such a long way, and understand each other and themselves so much better now.

Castiel always believed that if Dean allowed himself to understand the extent of his crimes, he would never do them again. And that has proved to be the case, again and again, as Dean has worked to change his behavior to keep Castiel safe.

They manage to get out of Salt Lake City without any problems. Dean relaxes when they're finally on the road, heading back towards the hidden spot where they'd left Dean's car.

There has been a difference in Dean since their first real hunt together, a little more than a week ago. There's moments like this, where Dean is reflecting on the past and lingering in its sadness, but overall -

Castiel thinks Dean looks the happiest he's ever been.

* * *

They travel for a few days, meandering. Then Dean finds a hunt. And another. And another.

In a matter of two months, Castiel saves ten lives. Aditi even helps, dragging a small, monstrous thing away from a frightened little girl. Afterwards, he and Dean curl up together and watch _Signs_ , which is far less scary than reality.

In a weird way, it feels domestic.

* * *

"Holy fucking shit," Dean says, and spits out goop.

Castiel feels a slop of something he doesn't even want to name slide down the back of his shirt. "What the hell was that thing?"

Said thing lies on the floor in pieces. Sloppy, goopy pieces. It looked kind of like a deranged child's drawing, all blocky arms and legs and head, with two piercing red eyes. Despite days of research, he and Dean never did figure out it was, and had to go into the hunt armed with the usual – salt, accelerant, silver, holy water, and so on. As it turns out, flares seemed to work best, and they hunted it into a cave mine, where it decided to explode when it died. Four months in, and this is the messiest hunt Castiel's been on with Dean.

"Fuck if I know. Any injuries?"

"No, I'm fine," Castiel says. "Let's get out of here. This is an abandoned mine, after all."

"Yeah, agreed." Dean hefts the flashlight and then pauses. "Think we should burn the body?"

Castiel sighs. A wet trail of something goes down the small of his back. "Probably."

The smell of it burning is like licorice. They then bury the ashes in dirt and pour holy water over it. Can't hurt, especially since they still don't know what it was.

The car is a half mile trudge away. "I'm never having licorice again," Castiel states out of the blue.

Dean stumbles to a halt and starts laughing. "Oh man, I'm with you there. That was fucking gross." He grins at Castiel. "I'd kiss you, but I don't think you like where my mouth has been."

Castiel makes a face and continues walking. "No, I do not."

After a moment Dean catches up. "I like hunts like this."

Castiel looks at him incredulously.

"No, not like _this_ this. I mean, where at the end of the day, the bad thing is dead, we're both okay and together, and we ride off into the sunset. It's nice."

This time Castiel smiles. "Yes. And no one else gets hurt. Kill the thing and move on." Hunting has given so much more purpose to his life. He's not Dean's plaything, or just Dean's lover. He's still helping people, just a little more directly and a lot more illegally. "I wish all hunts were like this. Goop aside."

"Yeah, me too." Dean eyes him. "I love you."

Castiel nearly stops, not at the words, but at the way Dean says them. Wistful. "I love you, too."

Dean grins and bounces off ahead. "Race you for first shower!"

"Hey!"

* * *

As part and parcel of growing up on the road, Dean has a very good sense for little side roads that are good to stop on and have a beer, or dump a monster's body. For the moment they're doing the former.

Yellow grass dominates the landscape, waving gently in the night breeze. It's a full moon, so Castiel has no problem seeing Dean, the area, or the sharp dips and bobs of the grass as Aditi runs through it. They are meandering their way across the states to a hunt that won't be active for another two weeks. Anniversaries are a funny thing.

They're both sitting on the hood of the Impala, a cooler full of beers on the ground.

Dean takes a long swig. "I'm done. You want another?"

"No, I'm good."

Dean hops down and grabs another beer and pops off the top. He clambers back on the car, glancing at Castiel as he does so. "Are you?"

It takes Castiel a moment to register the question. "Yes. Just enjoying this."

"Okay." Dean smiles, and they both fall into silence.

* * *

Dean plops the laptop in front of Castiel. "I've got take a piss. And you've got an email from Morgan."

Castiel puts down his slice of pizza. "Okay." Dean wanders off to the motel bathroom, and Castiel gets control of the mouse and clicks to Dean's email. Just like Dean said, there's an email titled _For Castiel's eyes only._

The first sentence is: _Dean, this isn't for you to read. Go get Castiel._

After a long space, it continues.

 _Castiel,_

 _I've thought a lot about what to say to you. I know that Weston Bower was the result of a hunt, in some fashion or another. You are not a murderer, but you are a hunter. I know just how difficult it is to try to balance hunting with law enforcement, and though I'm sad, I'm not surprised how it turned out. And I remember you telling me to let you take all the risks, because I had more to lose. So: I've been careful._

 _I know you're with Dean. He emailed me a few days after you disappeared and let me know he'd picked you up. I wish you'd learned what you needed to stay free and left, but I don't need Dean to tell me that you haven't. You've stayed with him, and you intend to continue staying with him. You believe, with all your mind, that you love him. We're profilers, Castiel, but even profilers can be tricked._

 _You don't love him. You care for him because you know all the tragedy in his past, but that's not love. Don't let him or you fool yourself into thinking that's what it is. He hurt you, and you're still acting out of the way you changed yourself to survive._

 _When Dean held you prisoner in his bunker, all you wanted was to be free. Be careful you don't end up where you started._

 _Always your friend,_

 _Morgan._

Castiel reads it a second time, and then a third time. Then he deletes the email, and empties the trash bin. He's not going to have to look back at it to remember what it says.

"Cas?"

Castiel startles, eyes snapping up. Dean's there, of course, looking concerned.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dean offers.

Castiel shakes his head sharply. "No. Let's go to bed."

Dean doesn't press.

Curled up in Dean's arms, Castiel lays awake and thinks.

He'd told Dean, what seems so long ago now, that even if he was acting out of the damage Dean had inflicted, he was still choosing freely. That he couldn't erase their history, good or bad, and that he needed his choices respected regardless of his ability to do that. He'd meant it wholeheartedly at the time. And even now, he still does in most ways. Either Castiel trusts others more than his own mind and heart, or he trusts himself first. Trusting himself before others resulted in him choosing, after nearly two years apart, to restart his relationship with Dean in a fresh and healthy way. And it has been healthy – it's been difficult to manage that, but they have, hitting their stumbling blocks and taking the blows, and then talking it out afterwards.

He didn't choose this, to lose his normal life and the easy ability to see and connect with his brother. It was a risk, though, and he knew that. He didn't truly think it would come to pass, though.

He loves Dean, but he can't help but note that Morgan and Dean said the exact same thing. The same words, more than a year apart. But is Castiel confusing love – deep, romantic love at that – with caring? Castiel enjoys their intimacy, both emotional and physical. That goes beyond simple empathy.

And yet. A kernel of doubt is growing, and Castiel knows it.

He is damaged. There's no doubt about that. There was a case similar to his, where a young woman was kidnapped, and eventually became complicit in assisting her kidnapper in taking other young women, even killing, raping and torturing them. It was because he damaged her beyond repair, and twisted her sense of self worth and sense of reality. She was indefinitely put in a criminal psych ward. She's surrounded by mental walls and can't see out of them to the person she used to be.

Castiel sympathizes, enough to make him scared. He's not who he used to be. And he went straight to Dean, with no time to consider for himself the changes to his life. When he was in a relationship with Dean, but separated by life and hunting, he had enough distance at all times to carefully consider his next choices. Not the case anymore. And then there's Dean, so – so happy.

He's tried so hard to accept what he's lost.

 _Be careful you don't end up where you started._

But has he thought about what Dean has gained?

* * *

Castiel shoves his normal clothes into his duffel bag. His suit he folds separately in a firm bag. It'll have folds in it, but far better than wrinkles. Dean teases him about it, but Castiel prefers to take the time now and save it for later. On top of that goes the fully equipped bag of medical supplies. He sees two socks, mismatched, on the floor and stuffs those in, too.

The bathroom door bangs open and Dean stumbles out with a curse, holding his head.

"What happened?" Castiel asks. Dean was fine after the hunt.

Dean grimaces, and Castiel's beginning to think the flush on his face isn't just from the heat of the water. "I hit my head on the shower head. Damn thing is too low."

"Escaped the vicious poltergeist, only to be taken out by the shower head," Castiel teases.

Dean scowls, but there's no anger behind it. "Did you pack my bag?"

"No, since you're so picky about it."

"I'm not picky! Not that picky. I've got a system, dude, and you should follow it, it's been honed over thirty years of carrying shit." Dean points at Castiel, and then goes over to the mess of a second bed and starts shoveling things in using his 'system,' which as far as Castiel can tell is layering clothes in layers of most to least dirty.

"Uh huh." Castiel zips up his bag and whistles. Aditi bounds up from the floor and to Castiel's side, leash in her mouth. "I'm taking Aditi on a walk. Be back in fifteen."

"If I'm not here, I went to get breakfast," Dean says, waving him off.

"Not pie," Castiel says, and ushers Aditi out the door. He puts the leash on her, though it's hardly necessary. She doesn't run away from him chasing other dogs or cars or anything like that. Castiel's very firm with her and she's well trained, so all it takes is a word to have her stick by his side. The leash stays limp, Aditi not pushing the limit as she walks by him.

It's not a great neighborhood, but Castiel does have a Glock on him, so he's not too concerned. The motel borders a neighborhood with worn down houses with bars on the windows. Castiel walks over cracked sidewalks, wild grass growing out of them, until he hits the end of the street and turns around. Aditi is happy, tongue lolling out of her mouth. Maybe he and Dean can go for a run sometime soon. The road doesn't always give the best situations for exercise, and Castiel has taken to forcing Dean to go to local parks so Castiel can get his runs in.

In order to convince Dean to go along, he just pokes Dean's slightly soft tummy and hums thoughtfully. Pisses Dean off every time, but he goes with Castiel without complaint.

Dean's gone by the time Castiel comes back. Castiel feeds Aditi her breakfast and takes a long, last sweep of the room, picking up hex bags as he goes. Those things can get expensive if they leave them behind.

"As promised, no pie. Just breakfast burgers."

"Smoothie?" Castiel asks hopefully.

"Mango," Dean says, and puts it down on the small table. "Pussy."

"Healthy," Castiel counters without heat, and starts sucking it down.

Dean sets up the rest of their breakfast on paper plates. Castiel has to admit that wherever Dean went this time, the breakfast burger is good. The bacon is hot and crispy, the egg not overcooked, and the bun is soft and fresh.

"I was thinking we could generally head off to that thing in Albuquerque," Dean says. "Check the papers as we go, see if anything more solid comes up."

"Sounds good to me. I didn't find anything concrete either, but I haven't done a full search yet. And there's a park I want to go to, if we're heading off to New Mexico."

Dean grimaces. "More running, or a hike?"

"A hike. There's more to keeping in shape than running from monsters, Dean."

Dean does a set of calisthenics every morning when not on a hunt, using his own body as weight training. It keeps him flexible, too. Castiel joins him, of course, but there's something about running at full speed for a mile – or five miles, at a steady jog – that soothes his mind. "All right, have it your way," Dean says with a shrug. "I reserve the right to complain."

Dean's complaints are really part of his way of interacting with others, a healthy set of teasing and frustrating. Castiel guesses it's from having an authoritative but absent father. Dean needs to poke people to remind himself that they are there with him, and they won't leave him over nothing. Watching Castiel react is reassuring. "I reserve the right to complain about you complaining."

"Done."

They settle in the car, Aditi in the backseat. There's a fitted cover on there now instead of just towels. Castiel has an ipod, though of course there's no jack in the car – Dean said he'd lose his mind if Castiel tried to desecrate his baby. Castiel decided not to argue and invest in a portable battery. Plus, he does understand Dean's attachment to his car.

The road is bright and the day languorous. Dean is humming a tune that Castiel doesn't recognize.

"Are you happy?" Castiel suddenly asks.

Dean almost swerves the car. "What?"

"Are you happy?"

"Um." Dean bites his lip and then says, "I feel like that's a loaded question."

Thoughts that were simmering now boil over. "You got what you wanted. Exactly what you wanted, in fact. Me here, with you, in this car, going on hunts. To the last detail, this is what you wanted."

"Well, not the dog," Dean says, trying to smirk.

"Answer me!" Castiel shouts, body jerking. Aditi whines in the backseat.

Dean does swerve this time, for a few seconds before he regains control. "Cas, I don't think we should have this discussion on the road –"

"Tell me!"

"Yes! Okay? Yes! I'm happy. But I'm not –" he looks at Castiel, "fucking hell, Cas, I'm not happy this happened to you! Is this my heaven? No. Because _you're_ not happy. And underneath, I feel guilty as sin." Dean's face is strained, stressed.

He's telling the truth. Castiel is certain of that.

Dean says, very slowly, "My only heaven is for that eighteen months to have never have happened."

All the anger drains out of Castiel, though less out of forgiveness than emotional exhaustion. "You think our heaven will be like that? The past finally forgotten?"

Dean shakes his head, jaw clenched. "I don't know."

Castiel doesn't know either. He doesn't think so, though heaven must have some kind of gentling effect on memories, or people would be tormented by what they had left behind, good and bad. "You got what you wanted. My life, the way I wanted to live it, is ruined, but you got what you wanted."

Dean opens his mouth and closes is without saying anything. And what is there to say?

"I know you're sorry. But we're still here."

Dean takes a deep breath. "Tell me what you need, Cas, and I'll give it to you."

Castiel turns away and looks out the window without answering. He doesn't know what he needs. He just knows he has anger deep in his gut, and he feels incredibly uncertain about his life as it is right now. Yes, he and Dean have fallen into a comfortable and comforting routine, but is that a good thing? It feels like a good thing, but can he step back and logically argue that's the case? He's been going based on his feelings, for the most part. He logically and rationally decided he still loved Dean back when he was still in the FBI, and he stands by that, but his decision to come to Dean and live with him was purely based on emotion. "I do love you," Castiel says at last.

Dean's shoulders slump, though his hands tighten around the wheel. "I love you, too." He licks his lips and fidgets for a long minute before adding, "I do understand, Cas. I didn't kill Sam's girlfriend, but when she died – and Sam lost everything – I got my brother back. And he hated that. He felt trapped. And he eventually chose to stay, at least partly because he realized he would never be able to leave the hunting life, but he walked away from me more than once in the process."

And then Dean lost Sam, and Castiel paid the price. "I see." Castiel lets that sit there, but Dean doesn't say anything more. "I'm going to take a nap." It's eleven in the morning, but Castiel could use the time to drift.

"Okay. We'll stop for food when you wake up."

To his surprise, Castiel does end up sleeping for a few hours. When he rouses, they eat at a random diner. The meal is silent. Even the waitress looks uncomfortable.

It's not until that evening, in bed, that Castiel is really able to set aside mental energy to his task.

Castiel needs distance. When he started this consensual relationship with Dean, he had the benefit of being able to be apart from Dean to think about it. While he thinks he's mostly solved the problem, he's always had trouble being rational and objective in Dean's presence, like Dean is a black hole warping his thinking. It's not very complimentary, he knows, but it's probably a result of how twisted Castiel's thinking became when arguing with Dean, while a prisoner in the bunker. Dean was very good, however unplanned it was, at making Castiel feel like he was the one being stubborn and unfeeling and difficult. That was a good portion of the emotional abuse Castiel suffered, really. Constantly feeling mentally off balance and unsure until he gave in.

These days he would wager that about five percent of his mental thinking is screwed up in Dean's presence. But shouldn't it be one hundred percent, if he's going to spend the rest of his life with Dean?

They haven't discussed it. But realistically, that's what Castiel is choosing. Where to spend the rest of his life. Who to spend it with.

Castiel chose Dean, of course, while he still had his life. Had his job and his brother, those anchors keeping him from spinning off into oblivion. He doesn't have those now. That choice feels different. It has an added weight, an added set of consequences.

Dean, on the other hand, is terrified of distance.

It's true that Castiel promised he wouldn't leave Dean. Dean told – no, Dean begged – Castiel to understand that if Castiel restarted their relationship and then left him, he would be utterly destroyed. And while it might be argued Castiel doesn't owe Dean anything, he gave a promise. And if he thought so little of Dean's welfare, he wouldn't love him.

But it was interesting, what Dean said about Sam. Sam left Dean several times, briefly. Castiel doubts he coped well, but he clearly did cope. No kidnappings, certainly.

Castiel needs to conquer that remaining five percent. He needs to know, with all his mind and not just all his heart, that he's choosing Dean freely, and that he can commit to that choice permanently.

How can he do that with Dean looking over his shoulder?

* * *

Castiel takes the time to carefully plan how to broach the topic with Dean. In the end, he chooses the morning after a hunt. Dean has had his energy all used up, and is calm and relaxed. They've just finished breakfast, and Dean is meandering around the motel room, gathering their things.

"Dean," Castiel begins. "I'd like to talk about something."

"Well, Cas, hate to break it to you, but that's not exactly news. You talk about everything." Dean grins briefly before his expression turns serious. "What's up?" Slight pause. "Is this about Morgan's email?"

"Partially," Castiel allows. He sits on the motel bed and gestures for Dean to join him, cross-legged in the middle of it. "I want you to listen, and hear all of what I say before you react."

Dean sits, hands loose at his knees. "Okay."

"I've been thinking about my new life circumstance," and Castiel grimaces here, what a weird of way of putting it, "and how that compares to the past. And it's not that I don't like being with you, and hunting with you – because I do. In some respects I've even grown to love it, as much as I love you. So I want to be clear that's not what this is about, not directly."

Dean is wary, but silent.

"Whenever I made a decision about you and us, as a couple, I had the benefit of distance. And now it's not that I think I'm wrong, that I don't want to be here and I just need to get away – it's that I want to be certain. Completely sure that this is what I want, and that I can give you … the promise of the rest of my life, without reservation."

"You want to leave." Dean states it baldly, and quietly.

"For a specified period. Yes."

Dean looks away. "Isn't that part of the FBI oath? Without mental reservation?"

Castiel is startled. How on earth does Dean even know that? "It is."

"Cas, you already made the choice to be with me. Why are you changing your mind? You said – you said you wouldn't do this to me." Dean's voice has turned pleading, and he won't meet Castiel's gaze. Dean snorts. "I put this in your head, didn't I, telling you about Sam?"

Indirectly, but Castiel would rather Dean not go there. "I need to be sure. Every decision I made to be with you when I was with the FBI and I had my own home, I meant it, but I had the distance needed to make the decisions freely."

"So you're saying you're not free?" Dean jumps off the bed and begins to pace, agitation finally overtaking the quiet horror. "I'm not holding you prisoner. I'm not."

"No, you're not. But this – I don't know how else to explain that this is something I need. We're going to be spending the rest of our lives together, hunting and on the run. I don't want doubt of any kind left in my mind." Castiel takes a deep breath, watching Dean continue to pace. "I have to go, Dean. I have to be on my own, to find out if this is really what I want, that I'm not just – choosing you because you're all I have left. That I'm not acting out of the damage you caused, but because I really do love you."

"You said that before. You said you didn't care if you were acting out of all the scars I gave you, you said that."

Castiel sighs. "I know I did. But it's different now."

"Because now it's real?"

"Dean."

"You know I won't stop you," Dean says, coming to a halt, eyes haunted by guilt.

"I know. I'm saying – I'm doing this for both of us. Yes, mostly for me, but if I come back to you after having been on my own, Dean, you'll know. You've always doubted me –"

"Looks like I should have!" Dean shouts, and immediately looks like he regrets it.

Castiel keeps his voice even. "And after this, if I can, than you won't." Castiel pauses. "I am sorry. Very sorry, for what I've done to you. Making a promise that I can't keep. I'm not as healed as I thought I was, not when I don't have any other anchors besides you. When I had my job and contact with my brother, it was different. I was grounded, so anything that happened with you, I had roots to hold me down and keep me secure. Make me feel secure. Do you understand what I'm saying, Dean?"

"I get it. Yeah. I do get it. You have to be able to be on your own, and know you'll be okay. Just like you had to know you'd be okay without me before." Sad. Quiet. "Tell me what you want to do, and I'll do it."

"Four months." Castiel holds out his hand. "Dean, come here."

Dean takes a shaky breath and then joins Castiel on the bed, taking Castiel's one hand in both of his.

"Regardless of what I choose, and I fully expect to choose you and to stay with you, I will be there in four months. And you and I, we will be friends for the rest of our lives, even if I need space apart."

Dean stares down at their hands, clasped together. "I won't blow my brains out. I promise."

Castiel exhales sharply as his worst fear is put away. "Thank you."

Dean chuckles.

"What?"

Dean shakes his head. "Something Agent Jareau said."

"What did she say?" Castiel asks gently.

"I'll tell you when you come back," Dean says, raising his eyes. "Sound good?"

"We'll choose a place and meet there in four months. And I'll keep my phone with me, you can call me anytime."

"Call me," Dean suggests. "If this – if you need this, then you should call me only when you want to, so I'm not distracting you."

Castiel takes that in. "All right."

"And something else. Cas, while you're away, you need to hunt. Do solo hunts."

Castiel blinks. "You always considered solo hunts dangerous, unless it was you going solo."

"Then find another hunter to do it with. But you need to hunt. I think – it's hard to explain, Cas, but it changes you, this job. And I think you need to experience that on your own. Really understand this life and what it means."

Castiel's never doubted hunting, just his relationship with Dean and all the messy bits that come along with that. But Dean sounds very certain of this, that it is absolutely necessary. So Castiel nods. "I will."

"When? I mean, when you are going?"

"I was thinking a few days. Get things squared away."

Dean stares off into the distance for a full minute. "I'll split my supplies. And we'll get you a car. Nothing like baby, of course, but maybe I can find a second best." Logistics, then. It's curiously calm, how Dean says it. Castiel expected more histrionics, to be honest. But while Dean is hurting, he's also not freaking out, and that's incredibly reassuring to hear. He hopes it's because they've built a trust together. That Dean trusts him. "And I should make a list of anything else you'll need. Oh, and do you know how to do credit card scams?"

"Only in theory."

"I'll teach you, then. And hustling. And picking pockets. Good skills to have. You know how to lockpick?"

"Yes," Castiel says, bemused, and wonders if Dean was like this with Sam, double checking everything even when Sam was raised as a hunter.

Dean is tapping his knees with his fingers restlessly. Castiel is sure he's thinking about logistics, but then Dean looks up, face flushing, and asks, "Can we have – can we make love? Before you go?"

"Oh, Dean. Yes." Castiel gets onto his knees and leans in to kiss Dean, soft at first and then with rising passion.

Making love is accurate, Castiel thinks. Dean is loving when he touches Castiel, when he arouses Castiel with his mouth and hands, when he spreads his legs and pulls Castiel in close, and then inside. It's not demanding, not that Dean minded that before. They rock together more gently than they ever have, and it takes a pleasurable eternity for Castiel to come. A single stroke of Dean's cock makes Dean join him, and then they curl up together.

Together. Castiel whispers, "I love you."

Dean's hand cards through Castiel's post-sex hair. His voice is whisper-soft, and warm on Castiel's skin. "I believe you."


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N** : This is the last we see of Dean and Castiel's POVs. There is one more chapter, from the perspective of the FBI. If there is anything you would like to see, now is the time to tell me!

 **A/N2** : I am writing an extended author's notes chapter when the story is done - a 'how I did it/weird facts about the writing' if you will. If anyone has questions they'd like me to answer about the story, let me know! (Last chance!)

 **Warnings (spoilers!)** : Violence on par with show. Discussion of past dub-con and trauma. Flashback of kidnapping. Possible dub-con, depending on your point of view.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Castiel's in a graveyard. Not terribly surprising, all considering. The surprising thing is that he's watching someone else dig.

He met Dave while on a hunt in the same area – a nest of vampires. At first Castiel thought that when the witnesses kept talking about that other FBI agent that the real FBI had stepped in, but when he got all the people he talked to clarify that the FBI agent was alone, he realized that wasn't the case. No real FBI agent goes anywhere without a partner, for lots of reasons. Safety, liability, another pair of eyes, backup in case a suspect blurts a confession. They took care of the nest, Castiel got mildly injured, and then when Castiel was on his way out of town, he heard about a spirit starting to get violent in a family home.

Which led him here.

"I swear," Dave grunts, "you came up with that injury just to foist this off on me."

"I told you I didn't mind if a few stitches got pulled," Castiel says dryly, hands balanced on his own nearly-unused shovel. Aditi sits next to him, keeping watch. She's gotten so sensitive to ghosts from her time hunting with Castiel and Dean that she will bark before they even materialize.

Dave grunts again, and then his shovel hits pay dirt.

"Here, let me help," Castiel offers, and then slides down into the grave.

Together, they get the last of the dirt off of the coffin and use a crowbar to get it open. Then they both get out, salt the body, and burn it. The night remains silent.

"Welp," Dave says, "I'm off." He holds out his hand, and Castiel takes it. "You've got my number. Come across a multi-hunter problem, I'm your guy. Casti-el is it?"

"That's right," Castiel says. "Thank you, and thank you for the help."

With that, Dave gathers his things and heads off. The family knew that Castiel and Dave were going to take care of the body, so strictly speaking reburying it isn't necessary. But Castiel does it anyway, pulling a few stitches in his side. He'll have to re-do them when he gets back to his motel, but he thinks the effort is worth it.

When he's done, aching, he slides into his '65 Mustang, black as the night. He's not entirely sure what prompted Dean to get Castiel such a flashy car, but Dean swore up and down that classics were better than that 'modern crap.' In all, it took nearly two weeks for Dean to declare Castiel ready to be on his own. Two weeks of Dean working on the Mustang (putting a false bottom in the trunk and in the back footwell, as well as a holster under the seat) and teaching Castiel how to manage false identities, credit cards, and so on. Most of it Castiel was already familiar with, but he'd never done it from the perspective of attempting it while trying to avoid law enforcement, so it takes a bit of practice to get him comfortable.

He does find it interesting that Dean fully kits him out. It would be very easy for Castiel to permanently strike out on his own with what Dean has given him. Dean also doesn't make mention of Castiel's promise at all, and the fact he's breaking it. Dean just gives.

The engine starts with a rumble. Castiel drives.

* * *

It's weird to be alone.

Castiel spent a lot of time alone when he was in the bunker with Dean, because Dean hunted. This isn't like that. Castiel still wanders across a lot of people just in daily life. It's similar, actually, to the first months of freedom he had while living on his own, after his brother returned to Texas. He has social interaction on a daily basis, just not ever with the same people, with the exception of cases.

It's not bad. It's life.

Castiel is doing fine on his own.

* * *

Castiel still dreams about Dean, though, even three months later. He dreams about sleeping in Dean's arms, and less distinct ones about sex and daily life. He dreams about a hunt he was just on, except Dean was there. He's okay, but he misses Dean, and his unconscious mind will not let that fact rest. He can keep busy while he's awake, but lying alone in a motel room, trying to fall asleep when the day before he spent all night doing research for a hunt, is surprisingly difficult.

He feels … emotionally flatlined, too. Yes, he's fine. But is that all he wants? To be simply satisfied?

Sometimes his brother enters his dreams, frustrated and crying and worried. They are not nightmares, but they come close.

* * *

He can do this on his own. But he doesn't want to.

* * *

Castiel's always preferred the term 'mental hospital' over 'insane asylum.'

But this place, Windover Psychiatric Hospital, deserves the term insane asylum. It's honestly every cliché of a haunted place that Castiel has ever seen. It's been derelict for thirty years, but steel bars, concrete walls and even the occasional full on steel cage (large enough to encompass a room) litter the area. Castiel had really hoped that the crazy doctor who had experimented on his patients would be released by the burning of his body, but it seems he's quite attached to his little personal torture chamber, or something in it. Castiel hopes it's not the whole building. It's three stories. He's pretty sure he'd need explosive ordinance to actually set the whole thing ablaze.

Castiel does take a precaution that helps, he thinks. It's noon outside right now, with a blazing clear day. Not a single cloud in sight. Sunlight out there, even if inside it's dark and dusty.

He brought a heavy backpack slung over his shoulder, with a shotgun in one hand, and a flashlight in the other. He's also got a pistol in an ankle holster, and another shotgun – loaded with rock salt shells – in the backpack. Dean often went for gasoline as an accelerant, and Castiel's not been able to get his hands on something better. Military grade would be nice. Pity hunters are off the grid. His car is loaded with more gasoline, and he put gallons of it around the building. In containers, of course. He's not stupid.

Well, not that stupid.

Admittedly, he fell through a rotted floorboards and landed, by sheer luck, on a mattress whose springs hadn't completely degraded. That's where he is now, laying on a mattress quite possibly as old as he is, his ankle hurting, and staring at the hole he fell through.

Good thing he didn't bring Aditi. He didn't think she would be all that helpful in a space like this, so he left her behind. For once, he really is alone.

He gets up, head swimming just a little bit. He checks his pack, finds the gasoline jug he left in there still intact. The jugs he left around the building are out of his immediate ability to use, but this will work in a pinch, hopefully.

He can make this work.

Okay, so he's not been as careful as he should have been. But this is his tenth hunt in three months, and the first time he's had a problem.

The ceiling shakes like the broken floor is settling. Dust falls. Castiel coughs, and takes a second look at the room he fell into, using his flashlight this time. It looks like a private patient room, judging from the sole bed (with restraints, half rotted) and the closed door with a tiny, tiny window. There's no doorknob. Castiel puts the flashlight down, pushes, then grabs the frame of the window and pulls.

Nothing.

Then, distantly, "Help! Is anyone there? Fuck! Fuck!" Female. The good, crazy doctor was a man.

It could be someone else trapped in here, for … some reason. Castiel can't think of one except the one he's here for. "Hello? Can you help me? I appear to be locked in here."

A moment of silence, then, "Are you real?" Her voice sounds louder – closer – by the last word.

Castiel pauses. "Yes. I'm not a ghost, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, thank God!"

Castiel can hear movement, then a clattering sound, and then the door squeals as it opens.

A girl of about twenty stands there, blond with a pixie cut. She's wearing jeans and a pink sweater, and has a cut on her forehead, bleeding slowly over streaks of red where she had wiped it away. She slumps with relief when she sees him, not even noticing the shotgun that Castiel is holding by his leg, pointed down. "Oh, another human being. I could kiss you."

"Cas. I'd say nice to meet you, but under these circumstances …" Castiel steps out of the room. "What are you doing here?"

"Jessica. Dare. Idiot." She holds out her hand.

Castiel raises an eyebrow and shakes it.

"Are you also an idiot?"

Castiel smiles, unable to help it. "Well, by some definitions, I suppose."

"Then what are you doing here?"

Castiel hesitates. "To take care of the ghost, actually." He hefts the gun a bit, because he doesn't want to surprise her.

She blinks at it and then leans in. "I didn't think ghosts were real," she whispers. "Idiot."

"Most people don't. Can you get out the way you came?"

"No, no. I'm lost. And the doors locked behind me. Creepy as hell."

Castiel looks down the hallway, trying to superimpose the plans from city hall onto what he's seeing. He has to remind himself he's on the second floor now.

"I didn't think bullets hit ghosts."

Castiel replies distractedly, "They don't, but salt does. These are filled with salt. It'd hurt like hell if you got shot with it, but you wouldn't be killed."

Jessica nods. "I'll go with that. Not the craziest thing to happen today."

"Did you see him?"

"Yeah. I mean, I was supposed to go the roof and wave back at my friends, and then come back, but I didn't even make it that far. It grabbed my leg, and I'd have thought it was just, you know, a crazy guy, but I threw something at him and it went right through. Made him drop me, and then he vanished."

That might have been when Castiel entered the building, considerably more threatening than Jessica. The doctor's office was on the third floor, and Castiel had managed to almost make it there when the floor gave. "All right. I think it's better if I get you out of here, and then come back for the ghost." Civilians come first. "Sound good?"

She nods. "Are you sure, though? I mean, it won't screw up … killing … the ghost." Her face scrunches up. "You know what I mean."

"Ghosts either attach to their body or to a much loved object. I think it's the latter with this one. I just have to destroy it." Castiel eyes her. "But once he realizes what I'm up to, he'll attack. I don't think you should be around for that."

She looks grateful. "You know the way out?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"I'm pretty sure I know where we are, it's just a question of whether the building has partially collapsed in any areas that would impede escape."

"Where are we?" Jessica asks.

"What used to be the secure ward –"

"So down the stairwell, cut across the minimum security, and out into the visitor's area?"

Castiel blinks. "Yes. I thought you said you were lost."

"I was. But city hall has building plans, you know."

"You looked up the building plans before you came here?" Castiel asks, not able to hide his surprise.

Jessica smiles wanly. "Well, not that much of an idiot."

Castiel laughs. "All right. Let's go."

The fact that the building has been abandoned for thirty years means that walls and floors have given way to water and time. They end up having to alter their path twice before they even leave the secure ward. Fortunately, it also means the secure doors are no longer secure, so there's that.

They're looking for a safe stairwell when Jessica asks, "So, um. You're a ghost hunter?"

"Basically. Yes." That's blocked, that's blocked …

"Like the guys on TV?"

"Not even close," Castiel says with a laugh. "The stuff I hunt is real, and I hunt it to eliminate it, not get a good recording."

"Oh."

There's ten minutes of silence. They find a stairwell.

"So how did you get into this?" Jessica asks, carefully picking her way after Castiel. He figures if it will take his weight, it will take hers.

Castiel hesitates. "It's a long story. But someone showed me that it was real, so I wouldn't think he was crazy."

"Well, you seem crazy to me. Ghost hunter."

"We prefer just 'hunter,' generally speaking."

"Noted. Hunter."

Five minutes.

"So, do you like, do this as a living?"

"An occupation. I don't get paid, but it's what I spend my time doing, yes."

"Oh, so you're an amateur," she teases.

"Trust me, I wish there was an X-Files, it'd make my life easier." And possible. Castiel feels a pang, thinking of the BAU and the life he'd lost. It's only a pang. The pain isn't as sudden, like the wound is slowly being covered by scars. In time, he's sure, it'll simply be another part of his past, accepted and moved on from.

"Is this wise to do alone?"

"Possible, but perhaps not wise," Castiel says.

"So you don't have a partner?"

Castiel almost misses his next step.

"Oh, so you do, and you don't want to talk about it."

"It's complicated."

"Is that your facebook status?"

Castiel glances at her.

"What? Your personal problems are a lot less frightening than being stuck in an insane asylum."

Fair enough. "I do have a partner. He and I are on a break. I needed some space."

Jessica claps her hands together. "Oooh. He. Is he your boyfriend, too? That kind of 'partner?'"

Castiel sighs. "Yes."

"So what were you looking to get out of having some space?" Jessica asks.

"Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Psychology major. Yes."

Castiel laughs. Of course he'd rescue yet another person to psychoanalyze him. Is this the universe trying to talk to him? Or get him to talk? Okay, fine. "Our relationship used to be – very unhealthy, shall we say. Abusive. He put himself through a lot to change, and I feel safe around him, but I still – I still want to be sure that I'm doing the right thing."

Jessica stops. "Okay, okay, first of all? People don't stop being abusive!"

Castiel stops with her. "Statistically it's very, very rare, but it does happen. He turned himself in and went to prison, Jessica. I wasn't kidding when I said it was complicated. So do you want to hear my personal problems, or should we talk about ghost hunting?"

"Personal problems it is," Jessica says with cheer. She becomes somber, and then asks, "Okay, so he hasn't relapsed?"

"No."

"Okay then. So you want to be sure you're doing the right thing by being with him?"

Castiel nods and begins walking, Jessica following. "D – he has a way of making things that aren't reasonable sound reasonable. Distance takes care of that."

"And what conclusion have you come to?"

That is … less complicated. Castiel loves Dean, still. He expected that. He also understands why Dean insisted he hunt during their time of separation, after endless hours of telling Castiel not to hunt alone previously. It's given Castiel a perspective on what hunting is, but also on Castiel's ability to cope with hunting as a job – as his sole source of activity and social interaction. Much like law enforcement work had been enough to keep Castiel happy, the same is true of hunting. He doesn't need a personal relationship to feel fulfilled, only his work and his brother. His relationship with Balthazar is more distant by necessity, but he still has his brother. Where once there was the FBI and Balthazar, now there is hunting and Balthazar. It's enough. But … "He makes me happy."

"Yeah?" Jessica asks softly.

It should have felt momentous, saying those words out loud for the first time. But it feels more like _finally_. He's agonized over his relationship with Dean so much, and he's ready for that to be over. "I don't need him to survive, but I – I want to be with him." Castiel smiles, unbidden. "He's been through hell, personally," and literally, "but the way he finds joy in the small things of life … I really admire that. And he finds joy in me, too, I know. And I'm finding, I guess I'm realizing, that he does the same for me. He gives me joy."

Jessica doesn't say anything.

Castiel glances at her, finding her thoughtful. Now that words have burst out of him, he wants to keep saying them – to say them to Dean.

"So you going to go back to him?"

Two weeks left. "Yes. I think I'm going to have to have a talk about boundaries and personal space, but … yes."

Jessica seems to take a few more minutes to absorb that. Then she asks, "So how did you become a hunter?"

"Easier to say how D – how my partner became a hunter. His mother was murdered by something supernatural, and his father saw it happen. So my partner was raised to do this, from when he was a child."

"I bet he's a study in abnormal psychology," Jessica muses.

Castiel snorts. "He is, though not to the degree most people think."

"And you?"

It takes Castiel a moment to realize she's asking about his entry into hunting, not how crazy he is. He decides not to mention soulmates. He doesn't want her wondering when she's going to meet hers, if she ever does. "He, um, fell in love with me from a distance."

"He stalked you."

"Well. Yes. And I thought he was crazy, because he's got several murders on record –"

"Murders?" Jessica squeaks.

"Not really," Castiel assures her. "They just looked that way, because ghosts aren't a good explanation, and I thought the same. He showed me it wasn't true."

"If I hadn't just been dragged thirty feet by a ghost, I'd say he was double crazy. Stalking and ghosts." Jessica pauses. "But he is one crazy."

Castiel shoots her a smile and shoves at a stuck door. "A bit, yes."

"You know, I wasn't expecting this, but your personal problems might actually be more interesting than the sudden realization that the supernatural is real."

Castiel laughs. He's been through that struggle. He kicks the door down. "Glad to be of distraction."

Jessica flinches at the sound of the doorframe being knocked out. "So he stalked you, told you the truth, and then what?"

Castiel dodges a low beam that's crashed through a wall. "He kept me prisoner for a while." Understatement. "Anyway, despite the supernatural being real, he was, as you put it, one crazy. So when I had the chance, I left. After close to two years, we finally really reunited and have been trying to make a healthier go of the relationship."

"Okay, did he go through a boatload of therapy? Because –"

"Actually, yes. As did I."

Jessica almost trips, and Castiel catches her, then assists her over a collapsed wall. "Well, I'll say this then. Shoot him with rock salt when he decides to be crazy."

"Oh, I will if I have to."

She nods firmly at him. "Good."

Castiel's about to say something else, but he sees a flicker of darkness and shouts, "Cover your ears!" And he fires.

Jessica screams, her hands on her ears and ducking down to the floor. She stays there, shaking, until Castiel gently touches her shoulder. "Oh my God. What?"

"He was manifesting. The salt will hurt him, it'll be a while before he can try again."

Jessica slowly stands. "How long?"

"Depends on how determined he is. The strength of a spirit is often linked to their strength of will. That's why angry spirits are so powerful – they put all their anger into their force of will. Come on, we should hurry."

Fortunately they've reached the first floor. At that point Jessica is able to find her own way out, but Castiel watches her go just to be sure she gets out safely.

She turns on the dead lawn to face him. "Cas. Be careful, okay?"

"In a few hours you'll hear about a hell of a fire," Castiel says. "I'll be fine. I'm a professional, remember?"

Jessica withdraws a dozen feet and throws him a smirk. "Professionals get paid!"

"Are you still here?"

Jessica smiles at him, and pauses, just once. "You're either really stupid or really in love." And she's gone.

Castiel is successful torching the office, and the crazy doctor disappears into smoke. Ten out of ten, he imagines Dean saying.

It's only after Castiel gets in his '65 Mustang that he realizes Jessica was also the name of Sam's girlfriend.

* * *

It does make him think about Sam and Jessica. Dean seemed certain they were in heaven together.

One day, that will be true for him and Dean.

Castiel wants to be with Dean. Settled fact. But he wants an expansive life, with more people in it. Dean is a fantastic hunting partner, but Castiel is used to having a team of colleagues. Of friends. If he and Dean didn't have the history they did, and Castiel wasn't damaged in the way he is by it, it might not matter. But Castiel is afraid of being alone, of forced solitude, even if the agent of that force is circumstances and not Dean. Moreover, in order to maintain a healthy relationship with Dean, he needs perspective, and other people provide that.

It is distance that has made him so ready to return to Dean.

Dean may not understand. He will try, of course, and Castiel will eventually make himself understood, but Dean has lived a life with only two characters, his father and brother – three characters, if Castiel includes himself – and the rest are just background. He cannot fathom the need that Castiel has for more. Just as Dean himself cannot fathom a love separate from need.

Ten days.

The next morning, Castiel slips into a diner and sits in a corner, asking for coffee first, and then their everything omelet. He scans the local paper for hunts out of habit, and then takes his cell phone out and texts, _I'm all right._

 _I'm fine_ would be code for Castiel being in danger. Castiel likes the ridiculousness of it, because it was his code for the FBI, too. He'll have to pick another when he and Dean hunt together, just in case.

Dean's reply is just, _Got it_. Over the past four months, he and Dean have exchanged probably less than a hundred words beyond that nearly automated checkup.

Castiel puts his cell back into his pocket and scans the newspaper again.

* * *

Ten days later exactly, Castiel drives into a park in Montana.

Despite it being winter, there are families running around – children chasing after dogs who have loosed their leash, parents watching in amusement, and joggers jogging around the chaos. The grass is half dead, from the cold more than anything, but green lingers here and there. Castiel got here early so he could lay out a blanket and wait for Dean. He even has a picnic basket with food from a little bistro. Aditi is wandering around on a very long leash, as per park requirements.

He reads while he waits, a recently published book on criminal forensics. Of course, law enforcement agencies keep secret the exact specifications of what they do and the limits of it, which is wise, but there's enough here to keep Castiel busy and careful. Two of the hunts he was on could potentially have had the FBI involved.

"Cas?"

Castiel looks up, smiles. "Hello, Dean."

Dean is standing maybe twenty feet away, holding a long cardboard tube in one hand. He shifts from foot to foot. "Hey. Can I –"

"Of course. Sit."

Dean walks over and sits, carefully placing the tube by his side. He looks nervous. Of course he looks nervous. Aditi licks his hand, but he barely looks at her.

"Dean –"

Dean asks, "Before we talk, can I show you something?"

Curious. "What is it?"

"Well, um, I decided to use my free time. Hardly hunted at all, actually." He pulls rolled up paper out of the tube, showing hand-drawn blueprints. Exact but done in pencil, so instruments were used. "I bought a property out in southeast Texas, rural, out of the way, with a private road. I designed a house and I hired some company to do the foundation – I did construction work, for a while, so I know you can't fudge the foundation of a house. So, that's there, and some metal stuff that I wanted to make the house really strong, but most of it isn't done. But I've got these plans, see," he points, "and I've figured everything out, how to make it really protected, supernaturally speaking and otherwise. And I thought, well, if you wanted to come back, that we could live there."

Dean looks up, hopeful.

Castiel smoothes out the blueprints. It's incredibly detailed, though Castiel knows from examining building plans that he has yet to plan electricity and plumbing, along with some other details. But most of the important stuff is there: three stories and a vast basement, with rooms laid out. He can recognize the devil's trap in the design, probably there for safety's sake, for the unexpected. Other spells are in the construction and arrangement of rooms.

It's beautiful. It's a future together, one in which Castiel is there from the beginning. Every step of it a path they walked together. Castiel shifts from the blueprints to Dean's face, so full of hope and nerves. This – this is Dean fighting for what he wants. Fighting with everything he has to earn it. And what he wants is Castiel. He wonders if Dean chose Texas because Balthazar is there. Castiel will be close, even if he can't be present.

Castiel leans in and kisses Dean. "I love it. Show me everything."

"So you – are you –"

"I came here to say yes, Dean. To stay." Castiel traces some of the lines in the blueprints. "This is beautiful. But I chose you before it."

Dean reaches out, fingers running gently through Castiel's hair, then grabbing it more roughly. He pulls Castiel in for another kiss, longer and slower. "I love you." He pauses, eyes Castiel. "Do you need to talk?"

"We should," Castiel agrees. "Do you want to do that now?"

"Um. Yeah. My nerves are killing me, Cas. If you don't spill whatever it is now, I'll explode before we get to the car."

Castiel smiles, unbidden. "It's not bad, Dean."

"You say that."

Castiel watches Dean closely for a few moments. "I realized I don't need you."

Dean flinches back like he'd been struck.

Castiel reaches out, finding Dean's flailing hand. "Dean, stop. I know that for you, you don't just love those close to you – you need them. But I spent so long needing you because you were all I had. But I don't – I don't work that way."

Dean won't meet his gaze. "That sounds bad to me, Cas."

"Dean, please. If I don't need you, then I can just – just _want_ you."

Green eyes finally rise. "You want me?"

"I choose you. I choose you knowing I could go anywhere else, that I could choose anyone else, but I want you. Do you understand?"

The glimmerings of that understanding appear. Castiel sees it in the way Dean straightens, in the confident line of his shoulders and the softening of his eyes as he leans in. "I'm not your last option."

"Yes. Yes, you're my first. You give me joy." Castiel meets Dean's smile with one of his own. Though he wanted to keep his job at the FBI, he wanted Dean more, or he would not have risked everything for him. "You get it?"

"You know how I got caught by the FBI, a year into being a total piece of shit?" But Dean says it lightly, smiling.

Castiel nods.

"Agent Jareau said something to me. I've never been able to forget it."

Castiel remembers him mentioning this. "Yes?"

"I know she said it just – just to try to convince me to let you go, and then I'd go to prison and never see you again. I mean, I know it was a ploy. But she said that if I let you go, and then you came back to me, that that might be love." Dean gives a dry chuckle. "I didn't even want to think about that, back then. But I've thought about it a lot since you told me you wanted to have a relationship with me again."

"Unintentional truths are a funny thing, aren't they?"

Dean laughs, full of teeth. "Yeah."

"You hungry? I brought food."

Dean blinks. "You actually made a whole picnic?"

"Yes."

Dean squints at him.

"It's my thank you. For you being understanding about breaking my promise."

Dean softens. "I was never going to make you keep it, Cas. Never."

"I know." Castiel kisses Dean's hand. "So, show me these plans you've drawn up. You say the foundation is already done?"

Dean is excited as he goes through the plans he's made. And best of all, he's left room for improvisation, so Castiel can also have his say. The foundation is unchangeable, but the rooms and even how many stories their home will be is up for debate. Dean's thought through just about everything with regards to defense, but Castiel has preferences for – well, what he wants his home to be like. Windows, for one thing. A lot of them. Dean almost argues, presumably on the merits of safety, but then shuts his mouth.

The bunker didn't have windows.

Dean starts putting in more windows, sketching them into the blueprints, and talking about how to research bulletproof glass. It's not quite effortless, this compromise, but it's close.

The sandwiches are finished around the same time Dean's finished altering his blueprints. "So, um, you wanna go?"

"What about my car?"

"Shit." Dean frowns. "How about you follow me, we drive up to the property, and leave her there? There's a concrete driveway. Then you'll get to see the place, too, make any changes you want."

Castiel nods. "Sounds good."

Dean smiles.

It will take a day or two to reach Texas, so Dean and Castiel drive half the day – in separate cars – and then stop at a motel for the night.

Castiel's been watching Dean closely. Four months both is and isn't a long time, and Castiel wants to be sure that Dean is as fine as he appears to be. The fact that he kept busy – and kept his hope – by planning on building them a house would indicate that Dean spent his time relatively healthily. He doesn't find any alcohol in the Impala when they stop, and Dean has only one beer with dinner.

Mostly, Dean seems happy. Relieved, too, but mostly happy.

The motel is crappy but warm. Dean's whistling as he cleans his favorite gun, and Castiel startles when he stops. "Hey, Cas. You don't mind me buying the place and picking the state and –"

"No, I don't mind. Gifts are surprises."

"Okay, good." Dean clears his throat. "So, how'd it go? Hunting on your own?"

"Pretty well, I think. Got bruises and scratches. Fell through a floor. But otherwise, it went smoothly."

Dean shakes his head, rueful. "Rotting floorboards, man. Two broken ankles thanks to that shit."

"I'm surprised you can still run."

"That's because I'm awesome, dude." Dean grins at him. "So how many hunts did you actually do?"

"Eleven."

"Jeez. Kept busy."

"Well, that's what I do to overcome things. I work." Castiel starts undressing.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Instead he stares. Then, with surprising gentleness, he reaches out and touches the barely-there scar from the cut with the torn stitches, and the large bruise – almost faded – on his hip from the asylum. He doesn't press hard enough to hurt, just enough that Castiel distinctly feels the rough skin of Dean's calloused fingers and palm. "You got hurt."

"Scrapes and bruises, that's all." Castiel reaches down and kisses Dean lightly on the forehead. Then he pulls down his pants. "Are you going to stare, or come join me?"

Dean blinks a few times. "Well, I'm all for coming."

"It has been four months," Castiel says lightly, teasing.

Dean groans. "Fuck."

For once, sex between them isn't about pure enjoyment or Dean taking care of Castiel, as he's been doing almost nonstop for a year now, since Castiel's life first started falling apart. All that is done with, accepted, and moved past. Instead, Castiel takes care of Dean. Dean is hesitant at first when Castiel takes control, providing comfort but not letting Dean do the same. Castiel massages Dean's body, re-familiarizing himself with his lover while Dean lies there passively, just accepting.

Soaking it in. Dean needs this. Castiel needs it, too, to give instead of simply taking.

It's playful. It's comforting. It's great sex.

But it feels like more than that - this feels like coming home.

* * *

There are patches of snow on the drive up to their new home, which makes Castiel wonder how they were able to form the foundation in this kind of weather. They must have had a break in the wetness, he decides, squinting through his windshield at the lazy little snowflakes that hit his car and melt. Still, in a month it will be warming up for spring. The Impala is just ahead of Castiel, keeping a steady pace just over the speed limit.

The trees are mostly bare, but their branches and bushes that meet at their base mean visibility is low anyway, once they turn off into the private road. Dean bought the place using one of the investment identities Sam set up. It's totally unrelated to anything else the Winchesters have ever done, so Dean felt fairly comfortable doing it.

Castiel's Mustang doesn't like the private road, which will probably need repaved in a few years. When he slows down, Dean notices and slows down, too.

After winding almost two miles, the road simply ends and Dean pulls into a driveway.

Castiel can see that the foundation and basement have already been built. There are also a few supporting beams in place. Off to the side are two concrete slabs, one of which has a tool shed on it while the other one is empty.

Castiel gets out of the car, and Dean jogs over to him, grinning. "See? Cool, huh?" Dean looks back out. "I figure maybe in time we could also make, you know, an escape tunnel. Not the kind of thing you want on county records, though. Not that I'm not bribing a few county personnel, anyway."

"In time," Castiel agrees, pleased to see Dean so excited. "So where do we sleep? The tool shed?"

"Actually, no." Dean points to the empty concrete slab. "We sleep there. Tent. For the time being, anyway. I might get a storage container, like the ones you see on trains and trucks, and put it out here, though, while we're building up the place."

"A tent?" Castiel asks, skeptical.

"Well, we get wet and don't break, unlike a lot of tools."

"You intend to build all this yourself?"

"With you. And not all of it, but a lot of it. I worked construction for a year, so I know what I can do and when we'll need to call someone in on." Dean pauses. "Electricians are a must. Pipes and shit, not so much. Well, it won't burn the house down anyway."

"Will we have time to hunt?" Castiel asks, stepping forward to get a better look at the forest that surrounds them.

"Well," Dean says slowly, "I was thinking sometimes one of us could go on a hunt alone. Or we could find some other hunters, do some real networking."

Castiel turns. He never had that discussion with Dean, too involved in reacquainting himself with the person he loves. "Really?"

"Yeah. You want that?"

Castiel eyes him. "You've thought about this."

"I have you. I want to keep you. Even if that means letting you go." Dean smiles, painfully.

Castiel folds Dean up in his arms, Dean's breath warm against his neck when Dean hugs him back just as tightly. "Thank you," he whispers.

"Always, Cas."

* * *

"I thought you hated camping," Castiel says.

In the end, they spend a few days finalizing the plans for the house and then Dean has Castiel leave for a few weeks while the frame is put up by professionals. Then Castiel comes back, fresh off a rugaru hunt, to Dean's tent and his rather larger and nicer tool shed, stuffed to the brim with tools and stacks of bulletproof windows and doors with a solid metal core. Castiel's not looking forward to lugging those around, though he knows he'll probably one day greatly appreciate the fact that they have them.

Aditi, of course, is having the time of her life. Dean took to calling her wolfdog after she brought home a rabbit with a broken neck. They seriously debated skinning and eating it, but neither of them knew exactly how. They're not starving, either, so they decide not to.

And now they sit, darkness ending their day of work. Aditi's out at the edge of their little camp, barely visible, and standing watch. The campfire is large and casts plenty of light and warmth. Dean's eating out of a can. "Well," Dean says, "I might have underestimated how miserable this would be."

Castiel laughs. "My entire body hurts, and we're eating out of cans around a fire. When will get the roof done?"

"After we get all the windows and doors in."

Castiel groans. "I thought I was in shape."

"You are, you're just using different muscles." Dean looks at him wryly. "I thought the same thing. I can run down a supernaturally strong and fast creature, but construction gives me back pain?"

Castiel snorts.

"I'll give you a massage," Dean promises.

"And after roofing?"

"Siding, most of the bulk of electrical and plumbing work, HVAC, insulation, drywall … and then we can move in and finish it!"

"Oh, God."

* * *

They buy a truck. A big ass truck. Rentals are nice and all, but not practical long term.

Dean insists on a full week of research before buying it, and an inspection in a mechanic's garage, before he finally admits the old, blue Chevy will do. By the end Castiel's almost rolling his eyes. But to be fair, Dean takes it home and then does maintenance and cleans it up just as carefully as if it were his baby, until its blue color shines through the rust. After that when Dean orders something from the Lowe's an hour away, it's easier to just haul it away.

They work together to put in the windows and doors, which is probably normally a three to four person job. Fortunately these aren't likely to shatter; Dean did insist on bulletproof.

Castiel grunts as they put the window into its designated spot. "Gap is gone," Castiel says, since he's the one inside.

"Good," Dean says, and gets the power screwdriver from his belt. He screws in the window.

"Weather stripping?"

"Yep."

This is their fourth. Castiel imagines by the time they finish the last, they'll have this down to an art.

That night they curl together in front of the campfire. Their tent has acquired several outer layers that make the inside warmer, so they don't have to share a winter sleeping bag just to get through the night without shivering. Not that there's anything wrong with being pressed against Dean's nice, warm body, but Castiel would prefer that it was not always necessary to be skin to skin the whole night. It makes the tent look almost like a patchworked quilt. It has a unique, homey quality to it that Castiel enjoys.

He imagines he'll enjoy the house even more.

They've also extended their kitchen into hot plates and have a microwave running off a generator.

Tacos. "It's good not to have something canned," Castiel says, munching.

"One day," Dean says, pointing a taco at him, "we'll look back on this and laugh."

"One day soon?"

"Maybe not that soon," Dean admits.

Castiel looks over Dean's shoulder at their shell of a house, standing tall in the clearing. The roof is next, and spring is coming. The days are already getting warmer and warmer. Then siding, and plumbing and electrical, drywall …

"Can I ask you something, Cas?"

"Go ahead."

"Do you plan on talking to Balthazar again?"

Castiel blinks away his vision of their home. "Yes. But I'm not sure how to do it safely except to send him letters. No matter how careful we are, if I keep calling, someday they'd get lucky and we'd get unlucky." Castiel snorts. "Letters. You know that's how my parents keep in contact with Bal? And they never even knew I was missing, though Bal told me that based on his emotionally charged letters, they probably think I'm dead and he was grieving."

Dean's expression is soft, sad. "You don't want to have your interaction limited like that."

Castiel sighs. "No. But what option do I have?"

Dean looks away. "You gonna tell him the truth?"

"It would be a burden," Castiel says.

"For you, maybe. Not necessarily for him."

Castiel eyes Dean. "What do you mean?"

Dean spreads his hands. "Think about it. You learn about the supernatural, well, you have to do something about it. But most people aren't like that. They take care of what's theirs, their family and friends. They don't go gallivanting off into the sunset to kill ghosts. I mean, a lot of people I've helped over the years? They knew it was real, 'cause it happened to them. Only a fraction of those actually decided to hunt or do anything beyond just throw some protections on a wall."

Interesting perspective. "I hadn't thought about it that way."

"But what we do know," Dean says carefully, "is that your brother thinks you're living with a total psychopath. He might know you had a good reason for killing that vamp, but the rest of it? He's got to think … fuck, I don't know what he thinks, but it can't be good. If nothing else, he's worried out of his mind about things that aren't true, and there are enough true things that adding on false ones, well – that fucking sucks."

Castiel is with a man who abused him in the past, but who changed. Balthazar can't see it that way, not when he still believes Dean to be a serial killer. In the clearest understanding of Castiel's situation, he'd be worried about Castiel's safety, of course. But not that Castiel will become a murderer himself, or that he'll be grimly tortured to death, or any other scenario he can imagine in his nightmares. "You have a point. You think I should tell him the truth?"

"I'm not gonna tell you what to do. But think about it."

Castiel finishes his taco, thoughtful. "Okay."

Dean smiles at him. "So, what do you want to read tonight?"

There's a waterproof plastic container where they keep books necessary for hunting, with some fiction thrown in. And since they don't have much besides cell phones to keep them entertained – just each other, and countless hours of conversation – the non-battery required books have become a favorite pastime. He considers. The first time he and Dean read this together it was quite different, so it feels right to do read it again. "How about Harry Potter?"

"If I can make fun of the magic inaccuracies."

"Hell, I'll join you, plus inconsistencies," Castiel says, raising an eyebrow.

Dean laughs and leans over to kiss him.

* * *

The rhythms of Castiel's life have changed again. From losing the BAU, to losing the FBI and his life altogether, to hunting with Dean and then alone – and now here, building a new home. Castiel's surprised by how settled it makes him feel, even though they haven't technically moved in yet. How secure. The bunker was a prison if also a constant, but this feels like the latter without the former. To have somewhere you plan to stay for the rest of your life – into retirement, to die here – is to have something precious that Castiel didn't even know existed. He never minded the traveling his job made him do, and he didn't mind it while hunting, either.

But he needs this. And Dean needs it, too.

The green of spring has sprung to life all around them. Their home, too, seems like it's grown overnight, even though Castiel remembers building every piece of it. The outside is almost completely done. Really, at this point there's only decorative flourishes with some spellwork left to do. Everything is insulated, the siding is done and painted (gray and a deep blue that Dean swears is the same color as Castiel's eyes) and the windows are all clean and open. There's brickwork that needs done on the second floor, and the tiny third floor needs a bit of custom stonework with another layer of protection.

"Ready to move in?" Dean asks.

"Well, it has to be better than a tent," Castiel says dryly. "Even if we're sleeping on the floor."

"I was going to pick up a mattress!"

"Today?"

"Yep. King?"

Castiel considers. "California king. We're not exactly short."

Dean takes the truck. Castiel is left to wander their new home. Of course, it's all as familiar to him as his own hands – he and Dean have been building non-stop, and while Dean is the expert in this scenario, he can't work without an extra pair of hands. Too much of what they're doing requires a second person for support and safety. Castiel enters the house through double doors, leading into a large living space that still has concrete for a floor. The kitchen is completely tiled, though, and there are empty spaces for the cabinets that Dean will make. Beyond that is the backyard, facing away from the driveway. Another set of double doors and huge windows mark it, and there's a little nook with bay windows, too. Castiel designed this part of the house. He wanted a place to look out where there was nothing but greenery.

Up the stairs is the bedrooms. The master is what he and Dean will share, and there will be a very large tub in the bathroom. There's a stack of tiles sitting at the doorway, waiting to be used.

The other bedrooms are either guest bedrooms or, well, not bedrooms at all. There's a library, and what will be an armory. (There will be another in the basement. Dean insisted.) Up the second set of stairs leads to the very small third story, which is basically another living area. They don't know what they'll do it with it yet, but both wanted it. Maybe a den, maybe just a place to sit by the window and look over the trees.

Castiel returns to the master bedroom. The floors are just unfinished wood, but there's a large rug laid out in the middle. That's where their bed will go.

It's so sudden that Castiel doesn't have time to prepare for it: he has a flashback.

 _He's lying on what feels like a very fluffy blanket, his hands and feet unbound. That impression lasts until he moves, when he feels something very heavy on his ankle. The world swims for a second when he opens his eyes, but he finds himself staring at a concrete ceiling. Looking around gives him concrete, windowless walls and an open doorway, beyond which there's a similar hallway. It looks halfway industrial, halfway like a fallout shelter. Another doorway leads to a bathroom that looks like it came from the fifties.  
And there on his ankle is a manacle, padded to be comfortable on the inside. A heavy chain is attached to it, disappearing off the bed._

Castiel jerks back, but nothing stops the movement of his feet. The chain that came to life before his eyes disappears. He stumbles back, trips over nothing, and falls flat on his ass.

He lies there for a good minute, breathing very slowly and purposefully.

Flashbacks are very uncommon these days. Castiel still has them, but it's usually because of something that he knows will trigger him, and it's more like a flash of a very vivid nightmare than a full on episode. Sex with Dean doesn't trigger it all anymore, though certain kinds of restraint will. Dean's very careful never to impede his movement, even when it's as simple as a hug.

Of course, Castiel never dealt with the bunker. Not really.

He refused to go back there, and still hasn't. Dean has stopped by it on his own to pick up supplies and books, but Castiel never goes with him. Just the thought of it is enough to make him shiver. He knows rationally it's just a place, that it was Dean who held him prisoner, and not the bunker. But he still feels like if he steps foot in it, he'll never leave again.

Those three failed escape attempts still haunt him, surrounded as they are by the results of his failure, the trauma he endured.

He doesn't want that for this place. Their home that they built together. He wants it to be clean and free.

He sits in the middle of the rug. He's not angry about the flashback, or even upset. He's contemplative.

"I'm not there," he whispers to himself, "I'm here."

And he wants to take Dean on this bed, and have Dean take him. Live in the present that he's so – so _happy_ in. When he lost his job and had to flee, become a fugitive for the rest of his life, he didn't know if he'd be able to find a happiness with depth. But he has. His hands hurt and he's got three bandaids on different fingers, and he dropped the corner of a piece of wood on his toes – steel tipped boots have never looked so appealing – and his back is killing him on a daily basis despite Dean's massages, but he is content.

This isn't the bunker. This is home, the one he chose with all the freedom to leave it.

He rises to his feet and gets ready.

The porch has a nice swing on it. Castiel finally got Dean to just buy one that they could put together in a day, and he hasn't regretted it since. He curls up on it, shoving off with one foot so it gently begins to swing.

Then he waits.

He hears the rumble of the truck before he sees it, and it makes him smile.

Dean gets out of the truck and hops onto the back, chattering, "So I got a California king, as requested, and they had this special deal to get a memory foam topper, and dude, I gotta tell you those are awesome – Cas, what's wrong?"

"Nothing is _wrong_ , precisely," Castiel says. Privately, he's pleased that Dean can tell. Dean spent eighteen months ignoring a lot of Castiel's nonverbal signals, but now he's very sensitive to them. "But you can do something for me."

Dean hops down and kneels by Castiel's side. "Of course, what is it?"

Castiel leans closer, almost touching Dean's mouth with his own, but not quite. "I want you," he says, Dean's breath warm on his skin, "to get that mattress up the stairs, into our bedroom, and to fuck me on it."

Dean's eyes widen. "I might, uh, need help getting it up the stairs."

"Then get moving."

Dean scrambles away from Castiel, getting the bungie cords undone so he can slide the mattress out. Castiel assists. Dean is clumsy, most likely because the entire time it takes for them to transfer the mattress, Castiel won't stop staring at him. It should be awkward, the wait, but Castiel doesn't let it be. He keeps touching Dean whenever he has the chance, glancing touches that make Dean shiver and stumble. When the mattress is in place, Dean kind of freezes, then finds a blanket and throws it over the bed. He eyes Castiel.

Castiel grabs Dean's hands.

"Cas," is all Dean says.

Castiel kisses him, soft and sweet at first, and then hot and heavy. Dean's lips are wet when Castiel pulls back to say, "I want you to hold me down. I want you to dominate me." Much quieter, "I want you to own me."

Dean swallows, but his face is flushed with arousal, not embarrassment. Still, he searches Castiel's face carefully. "And if you want to stop?"

"I'll stay stop."

Dean steps back, toes off his shoes, pulls off his t-shirt and steps out of his pants and boxers in less than thirty seconds. His cock is half hard already. Castiel strips just as quickly.

Then Dean moves forward, grabs Castiel by the wrists, and shoves him onto the bed. He follows Castiel down, knee between Castiel's legs, spreading them by force. Castiel bucks up into Dean, moaning. He's hard. He's been hard ever since he started planning this in his head, and now he's here, experiencing it. Dean wanting him so, so desperately had the capacity to make him incredibly aroused, and by the end of his captivity he wanted that feeling. He liked how Dean wanted him beyond all measure of morality, and he liked that Dean got off on that sense of ownership.

Maybe it's fucked up to want this in any form, no matter how consensual, but Castiel wants it anyway. He wants it because he wants everything; he wants nothing to be off the negotiating table.

He wants this here and now, in the home they are building together, because this is the first time they'll make love in this house. And he wants to mark it, somehow. And this feels like the way to do so, even though he doesn't know why.

Castiel's cock slides against Dean's thigh, leaving wet trails. Dean takes his wrists again and pins him to the bed, with enough pressure to make escape very hard, but not enough to be that painful. Dean withdraws just far enough away that Castiel can't get friction, and he moans, frustrated.

Dean's eyes are dark with want, and Castiel's helpless arousal seems to be enough of a yes. Dean leans in and whispers, "You're mine."

"Fuck. Yes." Castiel's voice is wrecked.

"I won't fuck you dry. Will you get me wet?" Dean demands.

"I'm – I'm ready. I got myself ready," Castiel admits, flushing.

Dean transfers Castiel's wrists to one hand, pinned above Castiel's head. With his free hand, he shoves Castiel's thighs farther apart, past his erection and down to his hole, gently swiping there and finding lube. "Well, aren't you desperate," Dean teases, confident.

"Aren't you?" Castiel asks, sliding an ankle down the back of Dean's leg, encouraging him forward.

Dean's gaze softens. "More than anything." Then he tilts Castiel's hips up and pushes in.

It burns. Castiel groans, half in pleasure and half in pain. But Dean is stretching him wide, Dean is holding him down, and for a moment Castiel is lost somewhere between the past and present. He remembers how much it turned him on to have Dean do this, to want this, and for him to simply accept it because he learned to want it, too, and now here he is. The present. Castiel could walk out that door, but he won't. Instead he raises his hips and Dean thrusts forward the rest of the way, balls slapping against Castiel's ass.

"I want you," Dean says, and begins to fuck him. "Are you mine, Cas?"

"Yes," Castiel whispers, hoarse, meeting Dean's gaze, reassuring the slight worry there. Castiel panicked the last time Dean did this, but Castiel is ready now, and he asked for it. That makes all the difference. "Yes. I want this." He grunts with a particularly hard thrust. "Yes."

"Say it."

"I'm yours."

"I'm yours, too." Dean fucks him harder, and begins hitting his prostate, leaving Castiel to make desperate noises and to struggle mindlessly against the one hand still holding his wrists down. Dean's eyes are wild, and sweat is dripping down his face. "You own me, Cas, always have. Say it."

Castiel barely gets the words out. "I own you."

Then Dean really lets loose. Castiel's ass stings where Dean's pelvis hits it, and the entrance to his hole hurts with the base of Dean's cock stretching it wide. Dean alternates between grinding into him and rapid, hard thrusting, making Castiel feel every inch. There's no give. Dean is taking his pleasure from Castiel's body, chasing his own orgasm while he stares into Castiel's eyes. He doesn't look away, not once, no matter how quickly he moves or how rough he gets. He's watching to make sure, Castiel realizes, that Castiel isn't panicking. That he wants this.

It's sweet, but it's also more than that. It's proof of years of Dean changing himself. Dean spent so long being everything for Sam, giving as selflessly as he could, and then Sam's death damaged that part of Dean. But now Dean's healed, just as much as Castiel has.

Castiel wraps his legs around Dean's waist, his erection slapping against his stomach, untouched but leaking.

"You gonna take it?" Dean asks, panting between words. "Take my cock, take my come?"

"Do I have a choice?" Castiel asks him, just to see what Dean says.

Dean leans in, though the angle makes it harder for him to move in Castiel. "Always."

"Then take me."

Dean lets go of Castiel's wrists, which are aching. He plants his hands on the mattress and uses his greater leverage to fuck Castiel harder. "Now come," Dean orders.

Orgasm overcomes Castiel, whiting him out.

When he comes back to himself, limp, Dean is finishing. A few more thrusts, and then those even strokes become erratic and Dean moans. Then he stills. He doesn't collapse on Castiel, arms locked straight, just stays there, with Castiel's legs around his waist and his softening cock still inside of Castiel. He stares down at Castiel, his short hair wet with sweat and his expression dazed by pleasure. Then he leans in and kisses Castiel gently.

Castiel cups Dean's face in his hands, bringing him in again.

Dean blinks, smiles. Then he frowns. "Your wrists," he says, voice rough.

Castiel looks. There are bruises. "Don't worry. I want them."

Dean kisses one of those bruises, offering a silent apology anyway. "Okay," he says softly.

After a moment, Castiel lets his body relax, and the altered angle makes Dean slip out, with Castiel wincing. Come follows, wet and warm and sticky. Dean eyes it, mouth quirking into a pleased smile.

"Like it?" Castiel asks, amused. He remembers this, and the memory is bittersweet.

"Of course. Can I?"

"Always," Castiel says, echoing Dean. Permission given, permission given.

Dean responds by fingering Castiel, pushing his own come back inside. It stings because Castiel is sore, but he lets Dean do it because Dean wants it. It's that sense of ownership that Castiel asked for, after all. He lets Dean mark his body with semen, and he lets Dean run his hands over Castiel's body, barely touching the bruises on his wrists, running his fingers more firmly along old scars, given by Dean and by others. Dean is thorough and careful in his examination of Castiel's body – and that's really the only word that fits. It's a gentle exploration, but too focused to be called anything else.

Dean presses his lips against Castiel's ribs, and murmurs into his skin, "I just like to remind myself you're here."

Castiel runs a hand through Dean's short hair, tugging at the ends until Dean raises his head. "I know," he says softly.

After a moment, Dean adjusts them both so they're curled up with Castiel as the little spoon. Dean asks, "You sure you're okay?"

"Hmm, yes."

"Can I ask why you wanted that?"

Castiel looks over his shoulder and gives Dean the truth. "Because I want everything." He wanted to christen this house with a full acceptance of past and present.

Dean looks confused, but he doesn't argue. He kisses Castiel's shoulder instead, and then travels onward, planting more little kisses all over Castiel's body, over all the places he's already touched. He slows near the end, Castiel drowsy.

Ten minutes later, Castiel rises from Dean's arms.

"Where are you going?" Dean asks sleepily.

"A walk."

"You want me to come?"

"No, you stay here," Castiel says, turning around and giving Dean a smile. He slips on his boxers and socks first, then the rest, even his shoes. "Rest."

"'Kay." Dean watches him go, eyes hooded.

Castiel makes a detour by the kitchen, grabbing the keys to the Mustang and putting them in his pocket.

The land surrounding their home is untamed, for the most part. There are a deer paths around in the area, and Castiel is following one of those. He and Dean go down this route about twice a week, and the path is slowly being widened by their footsteps. Light filters through the green canopy, scattering as the leaves shift in the low wind. He hears bird calls, smells the moist soil, and sees a squirrel run here and there. Castiel goes deeper into the woods than he usually does, the path getting uneven.

He's free. Free to go where he wants.

He turns around, heading back home. But he doesn't go in; he heads for his Mustang, unlocks it and sits in the driver's seat. He runs his hands over the steering wheel.

He has everything he would need to simply go.

Instead, he gets out of the car, locks it, and goes inside, back to Dean.

* * *

Their house is already a home, but now it is a home nearing completion.

The inside has drywall, is painted, and the kitchen is half done. Dean is making custom cabinets in the second tool shed, even larger than the first. They have a large generator, and a backup generator, and enough gas for both to last a year.

Castiel sits at the kitchen table with a laptop. They have satellite internet. Aditi sits at his feet, content to stay with him.

"Find what you're looking for?" Dean asks, wiping his forehead.

In the six months since they started this project Castiel's slowly taken over the responsibilities of the investment account Sam created. Dean hardly used it on his own, spending the most when he had Castiel prisoner, but the house has nearly bankrupted it. Castiel's been able to take what was left and use it as seed money, and the numbers are slowly starting to grow again.

Dean teased him relentlessly about the dozen books he bought about the stock market, but it's worked well enough to give them a bit of savings.

Castiel doesn't say it, but it reminds him strongly of Stephen. Does Stephen know what happened to him? Did the FBI contact him? Probably. Castiel stopped replying to emails after he fled, but anyone Castiel had contact with could be a possible link to his current location – a detail Castiel dropped, or even because of direct communication. What must he think to hear that Castiel fled to Dean, after having held Castiel and comforted him through the trauma caused by that same man?

Just thinking about the FBI interviewing Balthazar makes Castiel feel ill. He doubts Balthazar would ever handle that well. He's sent Balthazar five letters, never being specific about what he's up to, but assuring Balthazar he's all right and safe.

"Yes."

Dean waits. "Okay?"

"I found what I was looking for. Do you really want me to explain the intricacies of trading stock and legal technicalities to you?"

Dean shudders. "No thanks. Sandwiches?"

"Hm? If you're making one, I'll have one."

Dean washes his hands in the sink and begins pulling out plates. Castiel insisted the kitchen be finished first, so it's the first fully furnished room in the house. "The end approacheth," Dean says.

"You make it sound ominous."

"Woooo," Dean says, acting like a ghost.

Castiel laughs, surprised by Dean's silliness. "Are you high?"

"High off endorphins!" Dean pumps a fist. "Finished painting the second floor and the second bathroom's cabinetry. Just have to haul the thing up in pieces."

Dean is inordinately proud of the house. It amuses Castiel. He finds some satisfaction in having built it basically from the ground up, but not in the same way that Dean does. Most of his attachment to it is as a place of rest and togetherness. Though the memories of sweat, blood and tears help with that, he has to admit. "I'll make some cake tonight, then."

"Double chocolate?"

"Of course." Castiel's also taken up some elements of cooking. Or rather, mostly baking. He leaves the cooking to Dean. Ironically, he's the scientist and Dean is the artist. His pies have gotten really, really good, though. Dean doesn't even ask what weird ingredients he uses anymore, he just basks in a new version of an old favorite.

The quiet clatter of sandwich making fills the comfortable silence. Castiel finishes what he's doing, and then closes the laptop. News of another super storm possibly hitting Hawaii makes him think. "Have you heard anything about Anna? The angels?"

Dean shakes his head. "Been real quiet. Kind of unnerving, actually. Those dicks haven't been this quiet since before the apocalypse."

Castiel scrunches his nose. "That doesn't sound hopeful."

Dean shrugs. "Well, world ending chaos hasn't been happening for, jeez, going on eight years now, since Sam closed hell. Just skirmishes, really."

"You think it's over?"

Dean lets out his breath all at once. "Dunno."

Castiel eyes him. "If it wasn't, and something happened to me, what would you do?"

"I …" Dean eyes him back. "Well. I wouldn't make a crossroads deal or do something stupid to bring you back. Can't promise I won't do something stupid, though."

The back of Castiel's neck tingles. "Well, you don't have any more soulmates to kidnap, at least."

A short silence commences. Dean is a little pale, but all he says to break the quiet is, "Talk about it or move on?"

Castiel's gaze drops to the table. "Move on."

"Okay. I was thinking we could have some raised plant beds about fifty feet from the house, fence it in so the deer don't eat it –"

* * *

And so life goes, with happiness interspersed with their lives being in danger on hunts, with feelings being hurt, and then back to the beginning, just a little smoother next time.

* * *

"Interesting."

Castiel startles out of a deep sleep, eyes snapping open to find that Anna is standing at the foot of their bed, head cocked to the side, expression mirroring her one word. He sits there speechless. She looks the same, of course. Red hair, a tan jacket over t-shirt and jeans. Not exactly angel material, though she exudes a weird kind of power that's unspoken.

"Fucking fuck," is all Dean says, rubbing his eyes. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Busy." Anna pauses, eyeing them both. "As you have been, evidently."

"It's been almost two years, Anna," Dean says tiredly. "Is the world ending?"

Anna's mouth quirks. "No."

"Then vamoose off into the kitchen. We'll meet you there in ten minutes."

"Make it five." And Anna disappears.

Castiel turns to Dean, raising an eyebrow. "Well, well."

Dean makes a face. "At least the world isn't ending."

Ten minutes later, they're both dressed and heading for the kitchen. Anna is standing near the kitchen table. Ironically, the light that hangs over it is behind her head, giving her a halo. Castiel almost laughs.

Dean says, "Glad to see you're not dead, Anna. So where have you been?" And sits, giving Anna an intent stare.

"Negotiating."

"Negotiating what?" Castiel asks. "A cease fire?"

"More than that. It's an agreement that we will not interfere in humanity's affairs for at least three thousand years."

Dean's jaw drops. "Seriously?"

"Travel to earth will be banned, after a period of one year." Anna pauses for a moment. "It took far longer than two years to negotiate this, Dean, as time moves differently in heaven. But it will give humanity a chance to grow without angels at their heel, trying to manipulate them. Is that not what you wanted?"

Dean blinks at her. "Yeah, yeah that's exactly what we wanted." Somehow, Castiel knows he's referring to Sam. "Um, thank you."

Anna nods, taking that as her due. "I have come to offer you a last favor, before I go, as the finalization of our friendship in this life."

Dean looks like he doesn't know what to say. "Thanks, Anna. I don't know what I'd ask for, though." He smiles crookedly.

"Well, if I can take that favor from Dean," Castiel glances Dean's way, and Dean nods, "then I have something I'd like from you."

* * *

Balthazar is holding a photo album.

It wasn't until about five years after Balthazar left that his parents decided they only wanted letters from their second oldest child. Which meant that Balthazar had the opportunity to grab the old photo albums with Castiel in them. The fake leather is cracked and worn, and the pictures themselves a bit faded, but Balthazar can still make out Castiel's blue eyes, darker than his own. Balthazar's only a little over two years older than Castiel, but he remembers Castiel toddling after him on chubby little legs, repeatedly shouting, 'Bal! Bal!' Except he pronounced it as 'pal,' driving Balthazar to never ending distraction.

Castiel was a chubby child, actually, until he picked up running when he was twelve, thankfully for his high school years.

There's a photo of Castiel at his eleventh birthday party in here. Balthazar flips to the right page, finding Castiel staring at a lit birthday cake with intent eyes and rounded cheeks. His hair is straight and in a bowl cut, though it got wavy again later on.

Where is Castiel now?

The FBI came to Balthazar a week after Castiel made that phone call – ( _"Bal. I love you. I'll always be who you know me to be, your brother, no matter what they try to tell you. I'm – I'm so sorry. I love you."_ ) – and wanted to know if Balthazar had heard from Castiel or Dean. When Balthazar lied, they silently just handed over the record of the phone call, and told him obstruction of justice was a crime.

Balthazar spat in their faces.

He's not quite sure why he wasn't arrested. They came back a day later with a warrant and searched his home, but they found nothing. Castiel gave Balthazar nothing for them to find. He imagines that was carefully planned on Castiel's part. Castiel was always so smart, and he always thought everything through.

After the second phone call, when the FBI came, he told them the truth. Castiel called to let his brother know he was okay. No, Balthazar doesn't know where he is. No, he doesn't know anything about that stupid murder.

The murder Castiel admitted to.

He knows that Castiel isn't crazy. Castiel came back from those eighteen months a different man, with haunted eyes and a jitter to his step, but the core of him remained the same. Steady, compassionate, strong Castiel. The fact that he's with a known serial killer who kidnapped him and held him prisoner as a - as a sex slave, well, it doesn't make sense. Balthazar knows there must be a reason that does make sense, but he can't imagine what it is. He knows, though, that it isn't that Castiel is broken, was always broken, and finally snapped to reveal it.

The man who slowly healed in Balthazar's protective bubble wasn't broken. He was hurt, but not broken. Maybe he's screwed up in the head and that's why he cares for Dean, but he's not evil the way Dean is.

Castiel has been gone, fled, a little longer than he was once held prisoner. Twenty months, and only two phone calls and five vague letters.

Balthazar wonders less where his little brother is, and more what his brother is _doing_. Is Dean hurting him? Is Castiel letting it happen? Was Castiel telling the truth when he said that he was safe with Dean?

Balthazar snorts at the thought. Castiel might be okay with that fucker because he's strong and independent, but he's not safe.

"What are you doing, Cassie?" Balthazar asks his silent house, fingers tracing the face of an eleven year old Castiel.

"He is with Dean at present," a female voice informs him.

Balthazar screams. The photo album he was holding goes flying, and Balthazar joins it by leaping over the back of the couch and ending with his back flat against the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room.

A redheaded woman is standing there, wearing a coat and jeans, looking very normal except for – "What the fuck are you doing breaking into my house?"

She frowns. "I broke nothing."

"You broke the sacred bounds of my house! Wait, why am I arguing with you? Fuck." Balthazar heads for his corded phone.

The woman appears in front of him, from nowhere, and states blandly, "Your sacred bounds need work, then." Then she taps him on the forehead, and the world goes black.

For just a second.

Then Balthazar blinks a few times and realizes he's outside.

He stumbles backward, the shift from standing on tile to standing on dirt unsettling as well as destabilizing. He's in a field of some kind. There's a few broken down buildings in the area, as well as what looks like some kept up ones used by surrounding farms. Balthazar can only tell because there's a moon, highlighting wandering cows. There's a dark figure about twenty feet away. It shouldn't matter compared to the sheer insanity of being one place and then suddenly another, but it does. Balthazar frowns, steps forward, and the figure turns.

It's Castiel.

"Cassie!" Balthazar lurches forward, quickly falling into a run.

Castiel is grinning at him, teeth flashing in the dark, and then Balthazar is on him and throwing his arms around him. Castiel is warm, so alive – thank God - and he squeezes Balthazar back just as much, painfully tight, but Balthazar is so glad to have it, more and more proof that Castiel is okay, that he's _here_.

"Oh, God, Cassie," and Balthazar realizes he's blubbering and tries to get a hold of himself. He pulls back just a little, and sees that Castiel's face is wet, which damn near breaks his heart all over again. "Cassie. You're okay." Balthazar runs his hands over his brother's face, then steps away so he can get a look at the rest of him. Castiel has bulked up, surprisingly. Healthy. That's good, a relief.

"Bal. I'm so happy to see you," Castiel says, smiling as if he knows that's the understatement of the century.

Balthazar just smiles back.

"Do you know where we are?" Castiel asks.

Balthazar blinks. Looks around. Buildings. Outside. Cold night. Castiel. "No. Where the fuck are we? What happened? One second I was in my house and the next I was here."

"Anna brought you here," Castiel says, pointing over Balthazar's shoulder.

Balthazar turns to find the red haired woman standing there, still.

"I'll explain how you got here later. But what you need to know is that we're in Utah."

"Utah?" Balthazar shouts. "Was I drugged?"

"No. She teleported you here."

Balthazar stares at him. "That's not possible."

"You'll feel differently tomorrow morning when you have to arrange a flight home." Castiel takes his hand and squeezes it. "But I actually have something else to show you. Come with me."

This is his little brother, whose hand he held while Castiel was learning to walk. His first toddle. Balthazar watched a lot of Castiel's firsts, firsts that had come a few years earlier for himself. His little brother was always littler, until he wasn't. Then he was an adult, and strong, and powerful. The first time he saw Castiel in a police uniform was shocking, so he made a joke about strippers, of course. He watched as Castiel was promoted to detective, as he left the police to join the FBI. His brother has always tried to do nothing but bring good to this world, and Balthazar trusts him with his life.

So despite the insanity, despite the questions he has, he follows.

Castiel leads him through the dark, and with each step Balthazar realizes even more how strange this all is. He teleported here? To someplace in Utah? How did Castiel arrange that? Who is that redheaded woman? How is that even possible? What science was used? When Balthazar said it couldn't be done, Castiel seemed certain that Balthazar would be convinced.

Though the cold air he's breathing and the soft soil beneath his feet are rather convincing, he has to admit. He looks up at the stars, wondering if there's enough difference between a Texan and Utah sky for him to see it.

Castiel asks the void, "Is it still there?"

"Yeah."

Dean Winchester's voice.

Balthazar's eyes lock on him. Dean … Winchester … evil fucker. Dean, for Castiel's sake. Dean is standing there next to a skeleton of a building, hands loose at his sides, and his face lit by the moon. Balthazar can see him glancing from Castiel and then back to Balthazar.

Balthazar lurches forward – and fails to go further. The hand that was in Castiel's becomes a vise as Castiel tries to hold him back, but Balthazar yanks extra hard and gets free.

He runs straight at Dean and punches him in the face.

Dean doesn't even try to block it. He just goes down, falling on his ass with a groan. Balthazar falls over him to his knees, swinging repeatedly as Dean brings up his forearms to protect his face, but he doesn't kick Balthazar off.

No, Castiel's the one to take care of that. He grabs Balthazar by locking his hands together at Balthazar's stomach and pulling him off by sheer force, voice loud in Balthazar's ear through pants: "Bal, stop. Please, stop. Listen first, listen to me. Bal, I _need_ you to listen to me."

Balthazar stops struggling, breaths coming out of him in huge, heaving gasps. He stares at Dean still prone on the ground and snarls, "I hate you, I hate you!"

Dean just slowly nods.

Castiel doesn't give Balthazar any more time to launch another attack. He grabs Balthazar by the shoulders and forces him around to face him, cold palms on Balthazar's cheeks. "You're not here for him," Castiel says simply. "Now, follow me. Please."

"Cassie," is all Balthazar can say, one hand gripping Castiel's wrist. He wants to kill Dean Winchester. He catches flies in his house and dumps them outside, but if Castiel gave him a gun right now, he knows he'd use on Dean.

Castiel pulls Balthazar the rest of the way to his feet. Then, with a much more solid grip on his arm, he pulls Balthazar around the abandoned building.

There, over what seems to be the remains of a wildfire, is a creature.

It kind of looks like a giant, floating snake at first glance. A closer look reveals small legs, but it doesn't look ridiculous like it probably should. It curls into a sinuous forever symbol, clearly not obeying the laws of gravity, and its scales are a deep, dusky blue with hints of purple. In fact, it looks more like some weird interpretation of a dragon. It breathes out little puffs of light, and one of its giant eyes turns in Balthazar's direction, blinking.

Castiel is close by. He says, as if he knows what Balthazar is thinking, "It's real."

Balthazar swallows. "What is it?"

"We think it's a kami."

Balthazar can't break away from staring at it. "A kami?"

"Yes. A Japanese spirit, basically, from the Shinto religion. It's kind of a vague term, actually, but they're generally considered forces of nature, and can be either neutral, malevolent, or kind." Castiel pauses. "This one is a protective spirit. We think it came with the Japanese who were interned here during World War II, and after it was here for a few years with those interned it decided to stay to protect the locals, who apparently accepted its presence because of a flash flood that didn't do as much damage as it should have."

"It's a supernatural creature," Balthazar states, finally turning away to look at his brother.

Castiel smiles at him gently. "Yes. It is. At first we thought it was what we were here to hunt, but it turned out it was busy fighting some other creatures – I won't get into it – that came into the area to prey on the people here. Some of the locals call it Sally."

Balthazar is startled into a laugh. "Sally?"

"Well, most of them aren't Japanese. But they recognize a friend, I suppose, and they leave little gifts for her. It." Castiel shrugs. "Not sure gender applies to spirits."

There's a lot to process here. "'We came here to hunt'?"

"Well, Bal, look at it. After seeing this, can you tell me that the supernatural doesn't exist?"

Balthazar stares at him. "I don't understand."

"Dean was wanted by the FBI, by the BAU when I was with them, for killing people while claiming to hunt evil, supernatural creatures."

"No. No."

But Castiel continues on relentlessly, "Yes. Dean might be crazy, but not about that." Castiel takes a deep breath, glancing at the kami. "I wanted to show you this because it's not so scary, when you look at it this way. That there are beings out there that aren't out to hurt us, but to help us. Beautiful ones, I think," Castiel says, glancing at him. "There's a whole world that we didn't know was there, Bal. And I wanted to show you a better side of it."

"I could be hallucinating –"

"You're not. And when we drop you off at a hotel for the night, you'll see only a few hours have passed, not enough time to drive to Utah. You'll wake up the tomorrow morning, and realize tonight happened. And when you go home, you'll find everything there as you left it, like you simply walked away."

"This is real."

Castiel dips his head. "Yes."

Balthazar searches his face. "And you wanted me to know this. To see this."

Softer. "Yes. I think I'm a little selfish for putting this on you, but I wanted you to understand the life I live, even if no one else can. Vampires, ghosts, shapeshifters – they're all real. And Dean hunted them. And now I hunt with him, to kill them before they hurt innocent people."

It hits Balthazar all at once. "You're saying he wasn't wanted for anything he actually did?"

"Not for the most part. Not the murders." Castiel shrugs. "Hunting can get messy when you can't tell anyone the truth, but he never hurt anyone innocent."

"Except you."

Castiel winces. "Well, yes."

"He hurt you, Cassie. He kidnapped you, and he raped you, and he fucked you up. Even if Santa Claus is real, that doesn't matter, none of this –" Balthazar waves the kami, which is apparently losing interest and starting to fade away – "matters!" Balthazar pauses, but Castiel doesn't say anything. "I want you safe and happy, Cassie."

"I am," Castiel says simply. "As much as I can be safe in this strange world, I am." His lips lift in a curve for just a second. "And I am happy."

Balthazar takes a step away, and Castiel lets him. He glances to the side, but the kami is gone.

It has been more than seven years since that day in October when Balthazar got the call that his brother was missing, presumed kidnapped by force. His world fell apart that day. All the years he had feared getting a phone call from law enforcement starting the words 'I'm sorry,' and it finally came, not with notice of death but with a notice of possible death and total uncertainty. For six months Balthazar feared, then grieved. He thought his brother was dead.

The first phone call was shock and a joy, after six months of silence and uncertainty. To know his brother lived, no matter in how bad a circumstance, gave Balthazar hope he'd thought long lost.

The following year was hard. Balthazar spent most of it wondering how his brother was doing. Wondering if he was okay, if he'd ever come home, and what state he would be in if he did. His interview with Dean did nothing to reassure him.

Castiel came home, eventually, but he came home a damaged and different man, with PTSD and weird reactions on top of that. Balthazar knew that Castiel didn't hate Dean Winchester. Not on any deep, lasting level. It frightened him, that fact, but Castiel's relationship with Stephen and his job at the FBI reassured Balthazar by slow measure, each year making him relax a little more.

Then Castiel murdered a criminal, and ran. Back to Dean. The FBI was clear about that. And all Balthazar could imagine was that Dean had hurt Castiel so badly that Castiel could no longer see anything clearly, and was coming back to his abuser because he'd never recovered like they all thought he had. Balthazar always believed his brother wasn't broken, but he also belived there were pieces shattered and scattered, never brought back together.

But if Dean isn't a serial killer, what does that make Castiel's relationship with him?

Balthazar searches Castiel's blue eyes, darker than his own. "Tell me. I need to know – tell me everything. The truth."

Castiel nods. "You want to sit?"

"Is this going to take that long?"

Castiel laughs. "Yes."

Balthazar settles on the dead, cut off trunk of a tree. Castiel sits before him, and begins to speak.

Castiel starts with his kidnapping. He doesn't change the details he'd told Balthazar before, exactly. He just adds on.

Dean's promises, Dean's lies, and Dean's truth. Dean and Sam Winchester, fighting off the end of the world. Twice. The desperate tale of Sam Winchester and his death, his sacrifice driving his brother mad. And then Castiel enters the picture, confused, afraid, and then believing it. Magic. The cuff.

Castiel goes back to Dean's history before the kidnapping, again and again. It's deliberate.

But Balthazar doesn't care. He knows why Castiel is emphasizing that, but even if all that stuff is true, it doesn't change anything. So he stops Castiel's list of Dean's crappy reasons for sainthood. "I don't care, Cassie. I don't fucking care. What he did to you was monstrous."

"Yes," Castiel says softly, a little sadly. "Dean did monstrous things, but he's not a monster."

"I don't care," Balthazar repeats.

"I do," Castiel replies. "I always have." Castiel looks down. "I don't expect your opinion of Dean to change, Bal. But I want you to know that circumstances aren't quite what they seem. And if the FBI decides I've murdered people I haven't, like with what happened to Dean, then I want you to know the truth. That I haven't gone mad. That I haven't become evil. That I'm still your brother, your Cassie." Castiel pauses, not quite looking at Balthazar. "I didn't want you to think less of me."

Balthazar begins to cry. "You'll always be my brother, Cassie, and even if you were all those things, you still would be."

Castiel lets out a wet laugh and gets up, Balthazar following, and then they're hugging again. "Your faith in me kept me sane, I want you to know that. Knowing you were out there, waiting for me to come home. I came home for you."

Balthazar just holds on tighter, sobbing. He doesn't know what to feel, so it all just mixes up into one blob of fierce emotion. There's protectiveness, and grief, and a furious rejection of what he's been told. And love. With that love is a weird understanding that he doesn't want.

It takes time for Balthazar to calm down, but Castiel waits it out.

"So this – this is what you're doing now?" Balthazar finally asks.

"Hunting, yes. I did a few with Dean, then on my own." Castiel shrugs. "I wanted to be sure that I wanted to be with Dean, and … I do. I am."

"Is he – is he –"

"He'll never do that again. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe that." Castiel puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Dean's worked hard to change himself to be safe for me, I want you to know that. And I know you're going to worry anyway, but I wanted to give you something, some kind of reassurance."

Balthazar looks out at the empty space where the kami once was. His throat hurts. "You have."

A silence falls.

He hates this. He hates that this is how his brother's life has turned out, when Castiel deserved nothing but the best, nothing but a happy ending. When Castiel came home, Balthazar had hoped for so much for him, and now that's all gone. It's not fair. It's not right for Castiel to end up with Dean Winchester, a criminal capable of so much evil.

But maybe Castiel doesn't see another option.

Balthazar takes the time to collect his composure, what little he has of it – or has ever had of it. "I could leave my job, stay with you," he finally offers. It's not the life he wants to live, but he doesn't want Castiel to be alone.

"No. No, absolutely not. Bal, I told you this because you have your own life, and I knew you wanted to keep it. For me this was a burden I couldn't escape, once I knew the truth, but you're different. You teach kids, Bal. That's your job."

He knows it's true. Balthazar can't imagine living like this without losing his mind, though he'd try for Castiel's sake. He swallows. "What about someone else? Haven't you met other, uh, hunters?"

Castiel eyes him, then looks out the stars. "Yes. And they were good hunters. One died, James," he admits, "I never met him in person, but he helped me while I was still in the BAU and trying to keep my job. So he took all the risks."

"And now? Is there anyone?"

"No one I want more than I want to be with Dean."

"Killing monsters while a fugitive?"

Castiel shrugs lightly. "Yes."

Balthazar sighs heavily. "This isn't the life I wanted for you."

"Have I ever lived the life other people have wanted for me?" Castiel asks, his smile wan.

Balthazar laughs, and he almost chokes on it. "No. Never."

And he knows that's not changing now. As much as he wants Castiel to change his mind, do away with all his plans and promises to that fucker, he knows that Castiel won't do that. Not even if Balthazar asks him to, pleads for it. Castiel was always like a tree in the wind, bending a little when he had to, but always staying upright, always being true to himself and no one else. Castiel is strong. Balthazar can only hope he's strong enough to go on the path he's chosen.

At least an hour has passed, but Balthazar still feels time running short. Castiel simply waits for Balthazar to speak.

"I don't know when I'll see you again," Balthazar says, a fact that hurts. "When I'll be able to talk to you. Tell me – tell me everything. What's your life like? Do you still have Aditi?"

Castiel smiles, and tells Balthazar about their house, and Aditi the wolf dog. It reassures Balthazar in a way that Castiel's insistence didn't – there are too many details for it to be a lie, and so Balthazar relaxes into the rhythm of Castiel's life. Building the house by hand, planning each and every room with Aditi at his heels, maybe with a fresh rabbit in her mouth. Castiel doesn't tell him where it is.

He goes on to tell Balthazar about a few hunts he's been on, first two that he'd been on by himself, and then another couple where he was with Dean. He paints a different portrait of Dean with his words, one of a gregarious guy with a fondness for weapons, beer, and Castiel. Here and there Castiel will tell Balthazar about a fight, and how they resolved it. Peacefully. Without cuffs. It's pointed, and it doesn't dim Balthazar's hatred – for the past can't be undone – but it is reassuring that Castiel isn't being hurt in the present, at least not directly.

Balthazar still tells him to find another hunting partner. Another lover.

Because Castiel admits to that, too. That he and Dean are lovers, and have been since before Castiel left the BAU.

A long time. That's how long Castiel was lying to everyone around him. Balthazar can only listen, throat tight as Castiel gets more and more desperate for Balthazar to understand.

"You were everything I needed," Castiel insists. "I don't need Dean, Bal. I just want to be with him."

"I can't accept that," Balthazar says. "I held you as you vomited because of a nightmare about him. I will never accept that part of your life."

Castiel swallows, hard. "All right. But I will need you to not act against him, because that would be acting against me."

Balthazar looks away. "I hate it, but I do get that, yeah." He looks back at Castiel. "I'll still be praying for him to die in a hunt. When you're safely in the motel, or something."

Castiel just nods.

The night is cold, considering Balthazar has no coat on. But Castiel's every word is too important for him to care. So they talk, brother to brother, for hours, and Castiel fills in the missing pieces of his life for the last five years.

"It'll be dawn soon," Castiel says, breaking the easy give and take of conversation. "We should be gone from here by then."

Balthazar searches Castiel's face for any sign of fear or uncertainty. There is none. "Then I'd like to talk to Dean before I go."

Castiel seems to steel himself before he nods, and takes Balthazar back.

Dean is leaning against the side of the building, shoulders slumped, but with his head tilted back to look at the stars. At the sound of the two of them approaching, Dean straightens his back and shoulders, leveling a calm look Balthazar's way. A mostly calm look. There's wariness there, and something else that Balthazar is almost afraid to call guilt. Dean faces Balthazar squarely, hands loose at his sides.

Balthazar stands there, his breathing speeding up and clenching his fists as he stares at the man who nearly destroyed his brother, only held in check by Castiel. He feels the hate emanate from every part of him – soul included.

It would be easy to just attack again, swing and swing, but it wouldn't get Balthazar anywhere. He stares at Dean, determined. His only weapons are his words. "If you are capable of feeling guilt, then know this: you can never take back what you did. For the rest of his life, Cassie will be damaged because of you. He only survived because he's stronger than you ever were."

Dean doesn't falter, though his eyes are averted.

"That first day I got my brother back, he asked us to take that cuff off. And the thing that hurt the most about that was that he was asking like he expected the answer to be no. Cassie asked for so many things expecting the answer to be no, the littlest, stupidest things, and the biggest things – the freedom to go where he wanted." Balthazar has to stop for a moment. "I was the one who held him when he cried from nightmares you created. I was the one who saw him flinch when people got too close. I was the one who tried to put together the pieces you broke."

Dean's breath hitches.

"I will never forgive you for what you've done. And I hope you go to hell."

This time, Dean's response is a slight nod.

"I don't know if I'll get what I want. I do know I'm not going to get what I want now, which is for you to die, disappear, never see Cassie again. So I want you to live with the guilt of what you've done. You beat my brother, you abused my brother, you raped my brother. I want you to remember that. I want you to think about that every day, and feel guilty about it every second of every day, so all that never happens again, if that's even possible."

A shaky exhale. Dean dips his head.

"You hurt him, I will kill you. I will find a way."

Dean meets Balthazar's eyes at last. "I hope you do."

"Cassie," and now Balthazar turns to his brother, and sees that Castiel's eyes are wet. But Castiel doesn't interrupt. "I need to hear from you at least once every six months, in a way I'll know it's you. If I don't, then I'll – I'll figure out a spell, I'll hex the bastard, I'll do whatever it fucking takes to kill him." Balthazar pauses. "I'd do it now if you'd let me."

"I don't want Dean dead, Bal." Castiel takes his brother's hand. "But I understand, and I'll do as you say." Castiel pauses. "There's something else I should add. If something happens to me, then someone you trust, Bal, will come to you and tell you. All right?"

"Someone else who knows the truth?" Another glance at Dean. "Who won't lie?"

Castiel nods. "Someone that both you and I trust."

"God, just thinking about you dying makes me feel sick."

"I'm not going to die, not anytime soon." Castiel smiles at Balthazar. "I have someone to watch my back while I go hunting ghosts and things kami kill, remember?"

Balthazar's throat is dry. "What if the FBI catches you?"

"Well, Dean's even better at avoiding that than dying," Castiel says, wry.

Dean laughs, but he chokes it off almost immediately and clears his throat awkwardly, not looking at Balthazar.

"Um, in-joke," Castiel says. "Listen. Dean has own car. I should take you to a hotel, so you can go home tomorrow."

That reminds Balthazar of the odd start to an odd evening. "Who was she?"

Castiel's gaze goes distant. "Not human. The details don't matter, not anymore."

"That's not an answer."

Castiel's lips quirk. "Maybe another time. It's a long story. You ready?"

Balthazar sighs. "I'll never be ready for any of this. Yeah."

After a moment of hesitation, Castiel glances at Dean. Balthazar watches, recognizing the silent communication for what it is. He and Castiel had something similar as children, as did Michael and Castiel before Michael left. It's something that only happens with a person you've shared your life with, a lot of it. A thing born out of experience and not skill. Balthazar doesn't know how to feel, seeing Castiel and Dean share that. Sick, yes. But a little relieved, too, in some secret, dark part of his mind that will grasp for any hope, no matter how faint.

Then the moment is over, and Dean walks away, and Castiel takes Balthazar with him.

The black Mustang reminds Balthazar of Dean. But what Castiel's done with it reminds Balthazar of his brother.

There's an ipod jack, for one. Castiel is normally pretty neat, but he also ate in his car a lot, and Balthazar can see the signs of sauces mostly wiped clean here and there. There's a book at Balthazar's feet.

"So, letters?" Castiel asks.

"If that's all you can do safely, then yeah."

Castiel nods. "I'm sorry I can't give you an address to reply. It just isn't safe for you, or me."

"I'll figure something out," Balthazar promises. "Can you call me? Sometime? Like you did before?"

"Not anytime soon, but yes," Castiel says.

"A few months? Give me something. Keep safe, but something."

Castiel smiles at him. "Okay."

They hug in the shadow of Castiel's car. And then Balthazar, every step feeling like he's moving through concrete, walks away from his little brother. He doesn't want to go.

But Castiel just waves goodbye, still himself, and Balthazar lets him go.

Just as Castiel promised, Balthazar stays in a hotel for the night. He checks the time, notes it's been a few hours since he was in his home several states away. He wakes up the next morning and gets a flight back out to Texas, and as he gets on the plane, it hits him all over again.

Last night was real.

When he gets home, Balthazar sits at his ancient computer, making a note on a pink sticky note to buy a newer version, and sets to making a youtube account.

If Castiel can't receive letters, then Balthazar will just have to broadcast his to the world.

* * *

Castiel's cell phone is perched precariously on his shoulder, held in place by cricking his neck to keep his chin to it. "Yes. We'll get the hunt in Arkansas."

Dave's voice is on the line. "Fine, fine, take the more interesting case."

"The potentially more deadly case," Castiel points out. "I do have backup this time, you don't."

Dave snorts. _"Call me tomorrow."_

Call ended. Castiel puts down his cell and wanders over to the desk sitting in the corner of the dining room that has become his office. He needs to move it to the library, but hasn't yet.

After settling, Castiel writes down a brief summary of what they're about to go after in his logbook. It's coded, of course, in case he and Dean ever are caught in their home. He wants to get a larger picture of hunting in America, but he doesn't want to put other hunters in danger by doing it. In order for a code to be indecipherable, it generally needs to be designed to be read by only one person – the individual writing it. Castiel uses shorthand based on his own experiences as a layer of cryptography under the code itself, which uses a unique alphabet. He spent probably six months working on it before he ever used it, mostly used to research the subject.

His little hidden message in that letter to his brother that Dean sent, all those years ago, might have fooled Dean, but it won't fool the FBI.

Dean called it overkill, but Castiel knows what he's up against. The BAU has the best and brightest. Castiel was once one of them, but he's one man up against a team, and he has to remember that. He doesn't like thinking of the BAU as an enemy – and to tell the truth, they are less of an enemy and more of an inconvenience to be taken very, very seriously – but at times, he must consider how to thwart them to keep Dean, himself, and other hunters safe.

He closes one logbook and opens another, writing another entry. A fake, with false information.

Then he slips them both into a little hiding spot in the floorboards, and heads out to their backyard.

Aditi is dancing at Dean's feet, who growls at her, "Would you stop that?"

"She likes you," Castiel says to him, stepping onto the porch.

"I'd like it if she liked me less," Dean says, but there's no heat in it. He finishes using the drill to put a fence around the bottom of the porch – raccoons decided it made a nice nesting spot – and then heads up the short steps. "Did your brother send another video message?"

"Yes. I'd like to look at it on our way to a hunt. Possibly send a letter, too."

"Oh, thank God, another hunt," Dean says, brushing close to Castiel and giving him a quick kiss. He grins, a little too fast to be completely natural. Then he runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic. "Housework is so fucking boring."

Interesting set of nonverbal communication signals. But Castiel decides to let it go. It could be a thousand things, and Dean will talk when he's ready. "Think you could get our stuff?"

"Sure. The usual?"

"Yes."

Dean heads for the basement.

Castiel considers joining him for a moment, but doesn't. Instead, he heads up the stairs, all the way to the third floor.

The third story that is part attic ends up being a sitting room, one for just the two of them. They agree that it will be the one part of their house that will always be solely theirs, as long as they're both alive. The hunters that Castiel has formed into a loose organization – somewhat like Bobby Singer did back in the day – will probably be here sometimes, may even stay for a while in one of the guest rooms. Castiel will have rules about that, mostly ones meant to preserve their home as a sanctuary, and safely away from the eyes of the FBI and local police.

Castiel steps into that room, fingertips trailing along the beaten leather couch that has collapsed into softness. A red, fluffy rug lies on the floor, and an armchair is opposite the couch, perched right next to the round window that is part stained glass. There's no TV, no phone up here. Just a bookcase, a couch and an armchair, and occasionally the people who live here.

As isolated as they are, Castiel still likes to have peace and quiet. Dean even respects that here, instead of being obnoxiously loud as he usually is.

Their house was just completed. It's been a home for almost a year now.

Down one flight of stairs is the bedrooms, including the one Castiel and Dean share. That one they painted a soothing yellow. The others are all differing colors – not gray – and Castiel only peeks in each, remembering painting, remembering getting a heavy mattress or two up the stairs, remembering the broken big toe Castiel got in the process.

The bottom floor has the kitchen, probably the place they spend the most time, excepting their bedroom. Castiel's got two pies sitting on the kitchen table. The fridge is stuffed full of fresh items that Dean will use up when they get back.

The backyard is still mostly wild, a mess of trees and brush except for Dean's toolshed. Maybe one day they'll make a garage – Dean didn't put it into the plans, swearing up and down that he just forgot and that his baby has been outside all this time and how she didn't need a garage and garages are car prisons where cars go to die. Out of sight Dean's started a garden, fenced up to prevent deer from eating the goods.

Castiel lingers over the door to the basement, which is full of hunting supplies and a hundred day supply of food, to boot.

He goes out the front door, finding Dean already standing next to the Impala. Their duffels are gone, presumably in the backseat or the trunk.

Dean is shifting around nervously.

Bemused, Castiel walks up to the car, about to ask a question.

Dean clears his throat, fidgets, and then throws Castiel the keys to the Impala. "You drive."

Castiel catches the keys, raising an eyebrow. That explains the nervousness. Dean is very protective of his baby. He runs his fingers through the keys on the chain, stopping when he catches an unexpected gleam. Curious, he rolls it until he can see it. A golden ring, gleaming. A wedding ring.

Castiel looks up at Dean and smiles.

* * *

AN: There is one more chapter to go, but this is the last we see of Castiel and Dean's POV. The next chapter/epilogue is from the perspective of the FBI. :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Warnings (spoilers!)** : Violence and grossness on par with show. Discussion of rape, kidnapping, trauma, and serial killing.

 **A/N** : Thank you to Letzi and LolaRuns for beta'ing. Letzi, you were super thorough about every single word, and made me face my silly phrasing choices - I can't thank you enough. LolaRuns, you have my super duper thanks for going through this chapter three times, checking for pacing and story stuff. 3 to you both!  
 **A/N2** : The extended author's note will be up in about a week. I haven't finished it yet, but didn't want to delay the final chapter any longer. :)  
 **A/N3** : Thank you to all the readers who have read, commented, and kudo'ed this story. I'm quite sure I wouldn't have made it through this monster without you! I hope you enjoy the very last chapter to With Understanding.

Feedback is loved!

* * *

SSA Hotchner sits alone in his office, staring at the report before him.

He had hoped this day would never come. It's why he gave Castiel a recommendation, even though he forced him out of the BAU. In order for Castiel's behavior to change and to fully separate himself from Dean Winchester, he needed consequences for his actions, and Hotchner saw no better way of doing that than taking away the prime appointment of Castiel's career. But instead of that hit balancing Castiel out, warning Castiel away from possible communication with Winchester and off-duty investigations into other cases, it just made it worse.

Hotchner never saw this murder coming.

When Castiel came back, literally walking away from Dean Winchester, he hugged Hotchner and said, _Thank you for looking for me._

In that moment Hotchner thought the battle was over. Maybe not the war, that would only end with Winchester's capture, but certainly that battle.

Hotchner goes through his desk drawers, which are neatly organized, until he finds what he's looking for: a photo album. It has team photos with every member who's ever been in the BAU, typically taken once a year. Castiel was in it twice. So was Elle Greenway, the agent who also committed a murder but didn't get caught, resigning instead.

Castiel ran.

Most of the people who know Hotchner as acquaintances or just as work colleagues think he has little to no emotion because he expresses almost nothing. But that isn't true, as his friends in the BAU know. And so it hurts to sit here and see how far Castiel has fallen. He called Castiel a friend, and to lose that so violently brings Hotchner a quiet ache. He was losing that friendship – the entire BAU was losing it – by degrees anyway, but this was not how he anticipated things to end.

Putting the photos of a faintly smiling, professional Castiel away, Hotchner tidies up the report he printed out just to have the physical copy on hand, and heads to the conference room. There's a briefing due.

His team files in, one by one. Morgan first, taking a comfortable seat. He, like the others, still thinks this is about the Hitchenberg case, and it is, but Hotchner will have something else to address first. JJ comes next, followed by Rossi and Reid, in the middle of discussing some crime statistics. Penelope is last, carrying her folder and tablet, ready to give the briefing on their next case. She stops before the head of the table, laying out her things, and Hotchner takes the opportunity to interrupt her.

"Garcia, I have something to tell the team before we begin."

Penelope freezes. "Uh, okay." Hesitantly, she takes a seat.

Morgan looks up curiously, and so do the others.

"Yesterday morning," Hotchner starts with a sigh, "an arrest warrant was issued for Castiel Novak, and a search warrant for his home. He was missing when the FBI arrived, as were cash and sentimental items."

Penelope gasps out, "What?"

"An arrest warrant for doing what?" Morgan asks, leaning forward.

"For the murder of Weston Bower, a lieutenant of the mob family Agent Novak's organized crime team was investigating."

They all start asking questions at once, while Penelope alone just sits there in shock.

Hotchner raises a hand and they quiet. "I have a report which I'll email to all of you and that will answer your questions." He pauses. "Most of them. But in sum, it appears that Agent Novak killed Bower in order to save the life of his partner, Agent Roger Stein, though how he accomplished the latter is not known at this point. When the murder was discovered, Agent Novak was ordered to investigate it, so it appears he may have buried evidence. His superior got suspicious, had him taken off of it, and they uncovered evidence linking Agent Novak directly to the crime."

"Castiel loves the law," JJ says quietly, breaking the silence.

"He loves people more," Morgan says.

"There's another element," Hotchner goes on. "There was an occult scene that Agent Novak led them to during the investigation, and he said it appeared that Bower was attempting to cast a spell. It's unknown at this point if Agent Novak believed the spell to be a real danger, but given his relationship with Dean Winchester, who believes wholeheartedly in the occult, that possibility cannot be set aside."

Morgan makes a faint, hurt sound.

Hotchner knows they were close, closer after Castiel's captivity than before it. "We'll be waiting for the FBI internal affairs team to finish their investigation. Once that's done, we're to provide as much of a non-biased profile as we can on Agent Novak, assuming he hasn't been captured by then." He hates to say his next words, but the team needs to know. "The director isn't happy about this. He wants Novak captured, and quickly, before this becomes an embarrassment."

Morgan snorts and rubs his eyes.

"Start setting up interviews with everyone Novak knew," Hotchner finishes. "A month from now. In person if possible, by phone if not. Until then, do your best to keep this out of your minds. There's nothing we can do at this point." He nods at Penelope. "You can begin your presentation, Garcia. I apologize for the distraction."

There's a pregnant silence, filled with worry, fear and regret.

Penelope grabs her tablet, then drops it noisily on the floor. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just, um, a little unnerved."

"Take your time," Hotchner says gently.

He means it for everyone.

* * *

The team doesn't discuss Castiel. They can't. Not because they have been ordered not to, but because none of them know what to say.

Even as an entire team of ten people, FBI agents chosen by the deputy director, dedicates itself to looking over every single case Castiel ever worked on, they can't seem to talk about it.

Only Morgan doesn't seem at a loss. He looks contemplative, as well as sorrowful, but there isn't surprise there the way there is for the rest of the team. Hotchner knows that Morgan had his suspicions about Castiel's recovery from Stockholm Syndrome from the very beginning, but those suspicions had appeared to have been put to rest.

Hotchner watches Morgan, and wonders what happened between the two of them.

* * *

Three weeks later, the internal investigation is finished, and the case sent off to the federal prosecutor's office. A copy is sent to Hotchner, to be perused by the team and added to the profile they have been ordered to attempt. The upper echelons of the FBI are desperate to have Castiel caught, because Castiel committing murder is an embarrassment that makes the entire bureau look bad. And as biased as the BAU is, they are probably the only ones capable of unraveling Castiel's mind enough to capture him.

They haven't started that process – interviews haven't even started – when they are sent a video tape.

Hotchner sits at his usual place at the conference table, as do the others. "Shall we begin, Garcia?"

Penelope nods, a little shaky. "So, a cop was reviewing some footage from the day before a robbery, and he found something interesting." She coughs. "I mean, he found Castiel and Winchester visiting the gas station. Together." She pauses. "Very … very together." She taps her tablet, and the conference screen begins to play a video.

The image of a gas station appears on screen, in full color, though the resolution is poor. A black '67 Chevy Impala drives up and stops next to a pump. Castiel gets out first, stretching. Dean follows, poking at the pump, and then getting it started. There's no conflict there. Castiel moves out of Dean's way when Dean needs to get to the pump, and they appear to be calmly conversing.

Then Castiel leans in for a kiss. Dean gives it, and Castiel settles against the car. When the tank is full, they nod at each other, exchange a few words, and then get into the car and leave at a leisurely pace.

JJ breaks the silence. "This changes everything."

"Yes, it does," Rossi agrees, slumping into his seat.

"Reversion to Stockholm Syndrome after more than three years is unheard of," Reid says. "I can only surmise he didn't recover. Not really."

"Worse than that," JJ says, rubbing her eyebrow, a sign of stress. "I bet he's bought into Winchester's psychosis. It would explain his reaction to Weston Bower's occult behavior."

Morgan abruptly stands up. "I can't do this." He looks at Hotch, a pleading look in his eyes, and then states firmly, "I can't do this. I'm sorry." And he simply walks out.

After a moment, Rossi also stands. "Hotch, if you wouldn't mind …"

"Go ahead. I'll update you later."

Rossi follows Morgan out.

The silence is very uncomfortable. Hotchner breaks it, because it's his duty to do so. "We have a job to do, no matter how difficult."

"This is Elle all over again," JJ says, almost too soft to hear.

"This is worse," Reid says flatly. "Why didn't we see this coming?" There's no accusation in his voice. Just grief.

"Castiel was adept at hiding it," Hotchner answers simply. "Morgan and I had our suspicions about Castiel's captivity before Castiel came back to work – that he had not told us the whole truth – but there was nothing to substantiate those feelings."

JJ stares at Hotchner. "You didn't tell us about it."

"Before we get to that, we need to clear the air between us," Hotchner answers. "I'll speak with Rossi and Morgan privately, but I think we all need to say what we think about this situation honestly in order to effectively profile this case." Face implacable, Hotchner finally sits. He doesn't let his exhaustion show.

Penelope, surprisingly, is the first to speak. "This whole thing is so – so wrong." Her eyes are wet with tears. She glances at the blank screen. "How could this happen? I – I was so angry when Castiel tried to throw Hotch under the bus, but this?" Penelope swallows. "I just want him to come home, and for that that thing, that whole story to have just never happened."

JJ leans across the table to take Penelope's hand. "I think we all feel that way," she says, the carefully soothing tone of her voice closer to when she comforts a family member of a victim than a friend. Hotchner has an inkling that she started seeing flaws in Castiel's behavior a long time ago. He wonders how long she's known this is where things would lead.

"This job breaks people," Reid says.

"Our work didn't break Castiel. Dean Winchester did," JJ says without compromise.

Reid gives Hotchner an apologetic look. "I don't know if I can hunt him, Hotch."

"We won't be," Hotchner says. "We're too biased to do so effectively. I've already informed the higher ups that if we come across Winchester or Castiel, we're turning the case over to the local field office. If you feel you can't profile him objectively - if anyone feels that way – you are welcome to step away from the case."

Reid doesn't give a yes or no. No one does.

JJ taps a pen restlessly. Reid sits perfectly still, hands forming an arch as he thinks. Penelope is almost talking to herself. Hotchner watches them all, wondering how long it will take them to heal. But he knows from all that has happened to them as a team, that they will.

It's clear that Castiel won't.

If he didn't separate from Dean after his escape from that motel, he won't ever do so.

Penelope asks, subdued, "He's going to prison, isn't he?"

"I don't know," Hotchner says. And it's the truth. "I don't know how compos mentis he is."

"That's assuming he even gets caught," Reid says. "Winchester evaded us for a decade. He only went to prison because he turned himself in."

The conference door opens and Rossi slips in.

"Is Morgan okay?" JJ asks.

"Yeah, he's fine." Rossi directs his next words at Hotchner. "He's going home, Savannah has a cold anyway, and he'll take care of her and the baby."

Hotchner accepts that with a nod. If Rossi has more details, he'll give them later. "We were talking about Castiel. Clearing the air."

Rossi sits down before speaking. His age shows on his face, as it so rarely does – Rossi is a lively man, but there's nothing lively in him now. "I think I have too many questions to say a word, Hotch." There's a bit of anger stirred in his sorrow.

It's Penelope that breaks that impasse, once again. Not out of a recognition it's needed, precisely, but more because her words overflow from her heart, as they always have. "When I showed Castiel all the precautions I took around his digital information so Dean couldn't find him again, he hugged me." Penelope's smile is heartbroken.

JJ mirrors that expression. "He made me smoothies whenever I came over. In the beginning he said he'd forgotten how to make eggs, and he liked that he could just do something different. Move on."

"He told me Sam Winchester read my books," Rossi offers in turn. "Made a joke about how Dean needed to."

"He let me tease him about driving over a curb, while he was practicing for his license," Reid says. "He told me it made his freedom real."

"He swore to me he'd never let anyone hold him prisoner again," is Hotchner's addition.

They spend the next hour offering each other random bits of Castiel. Not just about the bits that are, in hindsight, worrying but the good bits, too, where Castiel seemed healing and healthy. Castiel returned to bringing donuts into the office, but other routines changed – he'd previously preferred to have his own hotel room, but after he came back he never minded sharing, and would usually volunteer to share if there were an uneven number of men. He and Morgan would do movie nights, Penelope tells them. He was, in some respects, even sharper on cases than he was before. He analyzed every detail in a way he didn't previously, occasionally leading to breaks in the case.

He played with JJ's kids. He got Penelope a new set of fluffy pens. He met Rossi's daughter, and had dinner with them. He took over paperwork for Hotchner so Hotchner could go home early and spend more time with his son. He wouldn't stop blushing when he took his boyfriend to a dinner, to meet them.

It feels like a wake.

They all wish that they could talk to Castiel now and convince himself to surrender. Or that he would have spoken to them earlier, while all this was happening – talk to them about Dean. All of it. Maybe they wouldn't be here like this.

"I don't know whether to feel betrayed, or to grieve for the man that we lost," Reid says at last.

That truth stings. "Perhaps both," Hotchner admits.

It's an odd thing to have to go from looking at a friend – even a former friend – and seeing only that, to looking at the same person now as a criminal. Even if Castiel is acting out of psychological damage and not free will, they must still catch him and bring it to be tried in a court of law, even if the end result is not guilty by reason of insanity.

Castiel never acted insane. Not once, in all the months since they got him back. Sketchy, perhaps, but always fully cognizant and consistent.

Hotchner can tell the others are thinking the same thing, or close enough. But it's Rossi who takes the first, necessary step. Rossi leans forward in his chair and asks, "So where do we start?"

JJ nods her agreement, and so does Reid. They aren't stepping away. Hotchner is proud of them for that.

He takes just a moment. "I think we need to go backwards," Hotchner says.

"To?" Reid asks.

"To the real beginning. Dean Winchester," JJ says, remaining zeroed in on the real focus here. Castiel, no matter how much it disgusts Hotchner to think it, will forever be associated with Winchester, instead of being considered on his own. The perception he fought for three years has now come full circle.

Reid, mind clearly buzzing, offers, "We do have the notes his psychologist took. And all of the potential causes of Castiel's behavior do start with his imprisonment by Winchester."

"We all agree then?" Hotchner asks.

They all look at each other. Friends. Family. Castiel was one of them, once.

"Yeah, I think we are," Rossi says, and he says it for all of them.

Penelope looks down, and asks to be released to her office. Hotchner agrees. She doesn't need to be here for this, though her thoughts on Castiel will be necessary when the time comes.

Profiling Dean Winchester is a bit like following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole. Nothing quite makes sense, but you are left with the continual impression that the people who live down there at the bottom of it – Winchester himself – to them, it all makes perfect sense.

Hotchner quietly edits his thoughts: Dean. "Call him Dean, like Castiel always did."

The original profile pictured Dean as a weird mix of a mission-oriented and visionary killer. Mission-oriented serial killers are very rarely psychotic, but they see themselves as ridding the world of troublesome people who 'need' to be eliminated for society's sake. In that, Dean fits perfectly: he is a hunter, killing monsters, saving the world, and there are indications that those he kills are criminals themselves in some way. The family business, as it were, since John Winchester started Dean's killing spree. And yet, the monsters that Dean kills aren't human in his mind – they are supernatural creatures. Visionary killers think they are sent by God or the Devil, and usually are psychotic. But Dean doesn't have an external source telling him what to do; he chooses his victims, based on some belief about what kind of creature they are. The theory didn't make complete sense, however, because Dean's signature changed constantly. Circumstances were always different. Dean never committed a crime the same way twice, even if the act of murder itself was similar.

Serial killers have signatures of some kind, even if they evolve. Dean's signature is unique to whatever he thinks he's hunting, though how he makes those determinations is still mostly a mystery. The vampire cultists that Dean killed in the dozens all had the same signature: beheading. But that's fairly rare in his victimology.

Castiel's perspective after he escaped added another layer of complexity to the profile. He claimed Dean to be a vigilante killer, which explained why witnesses would, approximately a third of the time, obfuscate important information or outright refuse to cooperate while claiming Dean's innocence. They were indebted.

But how did monsters and vigilantism coexist in Dean's mind?

That Castiel never fully explained, which he got away with simply by refusing to be involved in the case. The FBI doesn't force victims to testify except in extreme circumstances, and Castiel never visibly withheld information. Hotchner, even at the time, thought that Castiel understood a lot more of Dean's thinking than he would admit. Morgan confirmed that by telling Hotchner that Castiel said, quite confidently, that no one alive knew Dean as well as he did.

So they were left with a puzzle, more complicated than the one they started out with. Dean Winchester, mission oriented, psychotic vigilante serial killer.

And after that, it all flowers outward.

To Castiel.

Castiel called it bride kidnapping, though that term omits Dean's other crimes and psychosis. A pattern that would hold true, unfortunately. Whenever he discussed Dean, Castiel completely ignored Dean's other crimes, and Hotchner knows it was not out of a lack of compassion. It puzzled Hotchner at the time, though now suspicions are turning into theories.

But how does the profile of Dean change in the presence of Castiel? The two men are now inexorably linked, and they cannot profile one without the other.

It's certainly true that Dean was always a caregiver. That much was clear both from Dean's background and Castiel's description of Dean's behavior during his captivity. He thrives on having someone to 'care for' even if that person is there unwillingly, as he probably did with Sam Winchester at some point (particularly during childhood, though he also likely served a protector against their father) and was very obviously the case with Castiel. Dean's psychological state demands having company.

From the few police reports they got about Dean's activities before and after his escape, he was coping, if not always very well. Officers described him as tired and depressed, though focused on his 'case.' It's likely that a large portion of why Dean turned himself in was related to not having a partner to bolster his self-esteem and keep him relatively stable.

They always thought this relationship that Dean was attempting to form was purely parasitic. But was it?

"I keep thinking about the letter and phone call to Castiel's brother," Reid says. "We profiled at the time that it meant Dean was deeply emotionally involved in Castiel. Do you think it could have been less calculating than that, an act of compassion for someone he loved?"

"If it was, that could have served as way to coddle Castiel, and it could have developed their relationship further, increasing the development of Stockholm Syndrome. Though whether that was intentional …" JJ shrugs. "It's possible that Dean is only capable of compassion when it comes to Castiel, just like he was only interested in his brother's well-being until Sam's death."

"Castiel is a replacement for Sam," Rossi agrees.

"It seems likely to me," Reid offers, "that now that Dean has Castiel, he'll return to the way he behaved with Sam."

"I agree," Hotchner says. "But that doesn't make him easier to catch. Sam and Dean roamed the entire countryside, but Dean when he had Castiel captive was more selective."

"Dean is actually more dangerous now, more than ever. If Castiel is truly Dean's partner, we have a serial killer who evaded law enforcement for over a decade with one of the best agents in the FBI."

"If," Reid stresses. He frowns. "Need is a powerful thing. Dean needed Castiel."

JJ writes something down before adding, "Did Castiel respond to that need, absent of moral considerations? Is that what he's doing now, serving Dean's need while ignoring Dean's crimes?"

"Killing people that Dean thinks are monsters?" Reid asks.

It's a horrible thought. Even after eighteen months, and having profiled what Dean wanted from Castiel, no one on the team ever gave a second thought on Castiel's recovery. They certainly never thought that Castiel would, in time, fully break and commit crimes with Dean as an active participant.

They toy with the idea for a while, comparing Castiel's mental state to what they know of Dean's. Captivity was never Dean's end goal. His true desire was to have Castiel with him, on the road, hunting monsters and continuing his delusional, mission-oriented serial killings. Only Castiel's noncooperation kept that from happening. He no longer, it would appear, has that lack of cooperation. Castiel had to be allowing Dean's crimes, at the very least.

"Do you think that's what Castiel is doing now? Hunting monsters that only Dean can perceive?" JJ asks.

"Possibly," Rossi says. "But while Castiel is a replacement for Sam in Dean's mind, I'm not so sure about Castiel's mind, and that may have affected their relationship and Dean's perception of him. Dean and Castiel may not hunt like Dean and Sam at all. I think we should find out how Dean viewed Castiel."

"You want us to talk to the psychologist who saw him in prison," JJ says. "You think she'd have anything else to add? Her notes showed a huge obsession and the presence of guilt over his actions, but I still have my doubts about the veracity of the latter."

Dr. Merris, Dean's psychologist in prison – who, in return for studying him as a serial killer, provided some counseling – easily gave them her notes, which were extensive when referring to Dean's childhood and killings. Her therapy notes were there, but far less detailed. She had tried to give him privacy of a sort, and Hotchner can't help but wonder if she saw something in Dean that made her want to do that. The same thing that Castiel saw.

"We're due to interview her in a few days," Hotchner says. "I didn't think it was necessary after Dean's escape, but now I think it is. If we want to catch them both."

"You know," Rossi begins, then stops.

"What is it?" Hotchner asks.

"Dean turned himself in because he didn't have a partner. Then why did he escape?"

JJ hisses her exhale. "Because he had a partner. Castiel managed to pass him a message, forgave him – Morgan said that Castiel forgave Dean in prison – there must have been some kind of interaction that gave Dean hope. Eventually, that hope became real. Dean's escape wasn't random. That's how far back this goes."

Reid shakes his head. "No. This goes back to before Castiel's escape. We keep thinking as if something changed after Castiel escaped, but I think we're framing this whole situation wrong. Something changed during Castiel's captivity. And Castiel never came back from that."

The team sits in silence, not out of discomfort, but because they're all thinking. Analyzing. It's getting easier to see Castiel as a profiling subject.

"What if," Rossi says, "during Castiel's captivity, he became convinced that Dean was telling him the truth about the supernatural being real?"

"You think Castiel was psychotic?"

"Not necessarily," Rossi says. "It could be more like group delusion or a mass hallucination. Victims of a cult can be starved, beaten, or drugged into having what appears to be a religious experience, but is in fact the result of dehydration, sleep deprivation –"

"Or drugs," Reid finishes. "Dean proved capable of using prescription drugs to knock Castiel out, like Propofol. It's possible he was smart enough to find a drug he could use to manipulate Castiel's perceptions. Given that and Stockholm Syndrome, he could have had Castiel convinced."

"There's no evidence of that," Hotchner says, pointing out the massive hole in the theory. "Castiel said he was only given sedatives, and there were no scars or tracks on his arms to suggest he was drugged frequently."

"No, but we do know as a fact that Castiel's interest in the occult increased substantially after his imprisonment."

Hotchner sighs. "Castiel got a tattoo," he tells the others, "an occult symbol meant to make the wearer invisible to the eyes of supernatural creatures."

JJ raises her eyebrows and then blinks rapidly. "Interesting. If a bit horrifying."

"How many cases did we have that had killers with belief in the occult?" Rossi asks.

Reid, of course, knows the answer. "Thirty-two, if you include consults."

JJ shakes her head, not in denial, but more to clear her thoughts. "We've profiled on less," she points out. "I'm not saying it's even something we should put in the profile right now, but it's an avenue we should explore." She sighs. "I wish Balthazar would talk to us. He thinks he's helping Castiel by not cooperating, that Castiel is better off running, but he isn't."

Hotchner frowns. "My order remains the same. Leave his brother alone. Balthazar is too fragile to help us. If we pushed, I doubt we'd get anything of substance – Castiel would never give Balthazar anything he had to keep from us, he's too smart for that – and it would only cause Balthazar to break down."

JJ lifts her hands from the desk, as if to say, have it your way.

"Balthazar isn't exactly the most stable person to begin with," Rossi says with a grimace.

JJ looks sad at that. Hotchner knows she spent a good amount of time with Balthazar while Castiel was gone, talking to him over the phone and reassuring him. She might think Balthazar has more strength than he does just because of that; or her drive to catch Castiel – in some respect, to save him from himself – is overpowering her concern for Balthazar, who Hotchner doesn't doubt is innocent in all of this.

"Assuming that Castiel began to share Dean's delusion, why did we not see that?" JJ asks.

"Dean is capable of acting very normal. He's fooled countless victims, witnesses and law enforcement into thinking he is who says he is that day. He certainly doesn't mention monsters in public. Castiel could have learned the skill from him," Rossi points out.

"Then why escape, if he believed Dean's delusions?"

"The desire to be free," Hotchner says simply. "Castiel never lost that. When he was found, I told the police officer who interviewed him that if Castiel attempted to leave, he was to stop that by arresting Castiel and holding him as long as possible. Castiel found out, and his reaction was … strong. He made Morgan swear that would never happen."

Morgan, who right now is home with his wife and child.

"Do you think … that they'll be partners now, in Dean's criminal activities?" JJ asks.

"Over a fifth of serial killers work in teams," Reid says.

"Let's not go there yet, when there's no evidence for it," Rossi says. "For Castiel to go from law enforcement to serial killing is a leap I'm not willing to make, just yet. Killing Bower, as far as we can currently tell, was a defensive action to protect Agent Stein."

Often when the team profiles, they fill each other's weak spaces, striking down one theory while offering another. It's never competitive, and it's not now. Instead of different voices joining together to create a profile, they speak with one voice: a voice of confusion and loss. It will take time for them to get their balance and perspective back. Only then will they have a chance of catching Castiel and Dean Winchester. "We have a lot to think on," Hotchner concludes. "I think we should let our ideas percolate until we can speak to Dr. Merris. We have the time, we should take it." He pauses. "Go home, everyone."

No one leaves immediately. JJ gathers her things and starts talking to Reid about her kids, which is sweet. Though there's nothing romantic between the two of them, Reid has always been protective of JJ. Rossi joins the conversation for a few minutes, then meanders out.

Hotchner doesn't stay to chat with them. That night, hours after their meeting as he's putting his son to bed, he wonders when and where the BAU will see Castiel again.

* * *

JJ is driving home, until she isn't.

Morgan has been on her mind since he abruptly left the meeting. That in and of itself isn't really a concern beyond a concern for his emotional well-being, but ever since Castiel murdered a man and became a fugitive, or rather, before that, when Castiel accused Hotchner of improper investigative tactics and bias against him to save his own career - their close-knit team began to splinter. Oh, just at the edges, in the cracks between their strong bonds of friendship.

The thing is, JJ knows that the destruction of a friendship, of a person, is no small matter to those around him. Castiel didn't simply destroy his own life; the implosion of Castiel's mental health has exploded into those around him. His brother Balthazar was nearly put on leave. Morgan can't get enough distance to investigate. Everyone is heartbroken that Castiel has gone so, so far from the person he once was.

JJ has always considered herself a compassionate person. Even after years of speaking to family members and victims of horrible crimes, she didn't let her heart be hardened. Those people needed her to feel for them, and so she did.

The BAU needs the truth to remain whole. To move on.

The others may go after Castiel half-hearted. She won't. She has to ferret any information out, any seeds of doubt and fear that Castiel may have placed.

She loves her team – her second family – too much to do anything less.

The little, quaint house that Morgan calls home is dark in the night. Even the sunny blue that Savannah chose for it seems darker than normal, though JJ is sure that's just her own mental space interpreting it. When she turns off the car, she texts Will to let him know she'll be a little late. He'll understand, though she'll have to give him a full explanation later.

When she knocks at the door, it takes Morgan a moment to answer. "Hey," he says, slouched and casual, but there's a hint of wariness in his eyes. He's dressed in sweats already, and there appears to be a spit up stain on his left shoulder.

"Hey," JJ says gently. "Can I come in? I promise I won't take too much of your time at home, I know Savannah isn't feeling well."

Morgan hesitates, then steps aside. "Savannah is asleep, and so is our son, so we'll have to keep it down."

"Sure." JJ smiles. "I know how much it sucks to have a baby peacefully sleeping and then get woken up."

Morgan snorts. "I bet you do. How are your boys? You put their dad on babysitting duty?"

"Will's at home, yeah." JJ steps into the living room and sits on the couch. She's been here before, of course. They all have. Not long after Morgan's son was born, they had a potluck here, half to socialize and half to bring the exhausted parents some food. She found Castiel here once, she remembers, already sitting on the couch, relaxed with Morgan's son in his arms.

Only Penelope cut all ties to Castiel after the investigation was concluded. The rest kept in contact with Castiel in some form, including Morgan.

JJ takes a spot on that same couch, watching Morgan. "You doing okay?"

Morgan collapses into an armchair. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm doing okay. Just tired."

JJ nods. "This whole mess with Castiel …"

"It's worse than Elle," Morgan says quietly.

"You were the closest to him after the kidnapping," JJ says. "I'm not saying you should have seen something, but did you?"

Morgan's jaw clenches. "No." He looks away. "No, I didn't."

Looking away is a common sign of lying. Of course, it could also just be a sign of discomfort.

"Really, Morgan?"

He doesn't cover his mouth, shuffle his feet, or make a significant pause. He answers directly and immediately. "I didn't see this coming. Do you think I would have let this happen to Castiel – let Castiel do this – if I had?"

He isn't lying. But he's not telling the whole truth either, so JJ offers a lie of her own. "I believe you. I just – was there anything there that we should know?"

Morgan sighs. "I'm stepping back from this profile. I've already sent Hotch an email. I'm too close to it. If you have a specific question, then sure. But I don't want to drive myself crazy going over every conversation and every road not taken."

JJ rubs her eyebrow, smiling wanly. "I understand that." And that's the whole truth.

"I've got some casserole from one of Savannah's friends. You want some?"

It's been a long day. "I'd love some."

They spend the rest of dinner talking about their kids. JJ doesn't see another slip.

* * *

Dr. Merris is a woman in her fifties, with blond hair mixed with gray. Her suit is sharp and tailored, and the glasses that sit on her nose aren't decorative, though JJ is willing to bet they were expensive. She very much looks like what she is – a professional woman dedicated to her career, and determined to make her appearance match. She sits in an office JJ commandeered for this interview, legs crossed but relaxed.

JJ puts a recorder on the desk and takes her seat, not opposite, but diagonal. She doesn't want to appear confrontational when there's no need to be. "Hello," JJ says. "Thanks for coming." She holds out her hand to shake.

Dr. Merris leans over and shakes her hand firmly, giving her a pleased smile. "Of course. Anything I can do to help."

"I've actually read a fair number of your papers," JJ says as she flips on the recorder. "People glamorize what I do, but your work is just as important."

"Thank you. Fortunately I didn't get into this field for the public recognition. My peers know." Dr. Merris shrugs lightly. "So you want to ask about Dean? Was anything missing in my notes?"

"I wanted to know more about Dean's therapy. But before I get to that, what was your initial impression of Dean?"

"Depressed," Dr. Merris replies. "Very depressed." She pauses, head tilted. "But incredibly intelligent and focused."

That matches the BAU's own perspective on Dean. "What made you think that?"

"He had no desire to play a game with me. He knew that I wanted to talk to him for a specific purpose and he knew what he wanted from me in turn. But his affect was muted, his body language curled in and exhausted." Dr. Merris folds her hands. "You know, he asked me what I thought the goal of prison was. I've never had a subject ask me that. But he wanted to know if it was possible to be rehabilitated."

"Do you think it was possible? Do you think he accomplished that, in some sense?" JJ asks.

"In some sense, yes. Dean's delusions never faltered, of course. But his ways of forming relationships and coping – he had tremendous gains in those skills."

"You don't think he was faking it? You did say he was intelligent."

"Intelligent, but not a sociopath." Dr. Merris smiles a little, a small pleased one like an intellectual curiosity has taken root. "I would say he's not even a psychopath, though he has tendencies towards that, as well as psychosis. His explanation to me when he asked for therapy was that he believed there was a decent chance he would see Castiel Novak in heaven, and he wanted to be a better person for that eventuality. He was very fatalistic about his upcoming trial. He believed, wholeheartedly, that he would be found guilty, even as he proclaimed his innocence. When he was – well, coming from someone on death row, I don't think he was lying. He never slipped up and mentioned seeing Castiel in this life. He always directed his energy towards seeing Castiel in heaven."

JJ raises an eyebrow. "He thinks he'll go to heaven?"

"Well," Dr. Merris says, shrugging, "I'm an atheist. I believed that giving Dean therapy was useful in allowing him to come to terms with his life choices. I do believe in peace, whenever it is possible. My impression of Dean's view on the afterlife is that he believed in it absolutely. He claimed to have died more than once, only to be revived, and implied several times he'd been to heaven previously. This fit into his other psychoses, of course."

"Can you explain what you mean by that?"

"Dean believes he and his brother saved the world from Lucifer and the archangel Michael fighting. He claimed that such a fight would have resulted in half the world or more being destroyed, because of how powerful archangels are. He also stated that after his brother Sam sacrificed himself – falling into hell – to do this, they had to stop the archangel Raphael from restarting the apocalypse. Then there were leviathans and plots of angels and demons to fight against. Dean had no problem admitting to his crimes against Castiel, as well as financial fraud, but the rest he believed he was on the side of right and just."

All of that is, of course, in Dr. Merris's notes. All of Dean's pre-prison activities are there. Dean really spared no detail in explaining his delusional thinking and the killings he was on trial for. "So you would say that while Dean was delusional, those delusions were consistent?"

"Very consistent. I'd have to say the most consistent I've ever seen."

"Consistent enough to fool someone else?"

Dr. Merris pauses for a second before answering. "You are referring to Castiel Novak. I heard what happened. You think he's developed psychosis as well?"

"That's what I'm trying to determine," JJ says. "What did Dean say about Castiel?"

"Quite a bit, though I tried to limit my notes on him for privacy's sake."

JJ nods. "Of course. But based on memory?"

"Dean never mentioned Castiel fighting him on the issue of Dean's delusions. It was as if those conversations never happened. Whether they actually did, I cannot say."

An interesting absence, as interesting as Castiel ignoring Dean's other crimes after the fact. "Did he say anything about Castiel? Anything would be useful."

"He spoke at length about Castiel's admirable attributes, but I don't think that's what you mean."

"Not exactly, no."

Dr. Merris takes a moment to consider. "Dean believed he had a mystical connection to Castiel, because Castiel was his soulmate."

JJ remembers that Castiel claimed to 'feel' Dean nearby in Wyoming, three weeks before his kidnapping.

Dr. Merris continues, "As far as their relationship, Dean was able to recognize the destructiveness of imprisoning Castiel. He told me that Castiel experienced a deep depression after his third escape attempt failed, and he became concerned that Castiel would commit suicide. Dean remained in the bunker with him until Castiel appeared to recover, which Dean described as Castiel accepting his circumstances. I believe he was referring to Castiel being a prisoner, though it is possible he was also referring to Castiel believing Dean's psychoses. If Castiel did come to believe him, then I think he did so out of immense psychological pressure to conform in order to be happy."

JJ blinks. "You think that's possible?"

"I think it highly unlikely, considering Castiel's age, sex, and career. It would be the first case of its kind for that reason alone. But it is possible. Isolation is one of the purest forms of psychological torture."

If that was the case, how did Castiel hide his belief in Dean's delusions for so long? "Dean never indicated he was communicating with Castiel before or after prison?"

"Not directly."

"Not directly?" JJ asks.

Dr. Merris leans forward. "I gave Dean moral reconation therapy, as I felt it fit his goals best, though I'm not sure I'd call long-term kidnapping the same as domestic abuse. However, when Dean came to me, he was far more aware of the psychological extent of his crimes than I would expect, given the crimes involved. When I asked him if he had seen a professional, his response was 'not a professional.' That implies to me he did speak to someone at length."

"And you think that was Castiel?"

"Well, not necessarily. But it certainly could have been. BAU members are students of psychology. All pure speculation on my part, you understand. I'm merely offering that Dean did speak to someone with some degree of knowledge about the subject matter."

She knows she has the recorder, but JJ starts writing notes down anyway. _Did Castiel speak to Dean after his escape?_ she writes. "Did Dean ever mention drugging Castiel?"

"Sedation, yes."

"Nothing else?"

"No."

"We theorized that it was possible Dean drugged Castiel so he would hallucinate, in order to bring him over to Dean's thinking. Do you think it's possible that happened?"

"Possible, but I'd wager unlikely. Dean wanted Castiel as a partner. He really did believe, in the beginning, that he would eventually let Castiel go. That he would respect boundaries. And he continued to possess that certainty in his beliefs until after Castiel escaped. I'm not sure Dean was capable of that kind of planning, because it wouldn't be a true partnership in his own mind, in that case, in addition to the fact that Dean absolutely believes that the supernatural is real. He might be actively hallucinating and expect Castiel to see it, but I don't think he'd 'fake' it."

JJ writes that down, too. "You said your therapy with Dean was in some sense successful. Do you think that Dean loved Castiel?"

"There is no doubt in my mind that Dean loved Castiel."

JJ looks up. "None?"

"None. It was not a healthy love, and dangerous for them both, but I would call it love all the same."

That's startling. Yes, Dr. Merris said that Dean wasn't a sociopath or psychopath, but the BAU never really considered the Winchesters capable of love. Not real love. That requires empathy which is hard to see Dean having with the extent of his criminal activities. "Why?"

"Dean changed so much of himself out of the simple hope that he would be good for Castiel. I would call that love," Dr. Merris says, very simply.

"Do you think Castiel loved Dean?"

That takes longer. "In some sense, perhaps? Though that's purely from Dean's perspective on the matter, since I never interviewed Castiel. At the same time, Dean was convinced that Castiel did not love him, however. He believed Castiel suffered from Stockholm Syndrome, and that Castiel 'loved' him out of the necessity of keeping his own mind intact, which is the more likely scenario. That also indicated to me he had spoken to someone at length about what he did to Castiel."

"Okay. You've given me a lot to think about. Would you mind going over Dean's criminal history?"

"Of course."

They spend the next hour dissecting it, JJ trying to see things from Dean's point of view, and how Castiel could possibly perceive Dean's actions in the same light as Dean. Ghosts, monsters, demons and angels manipulating two brothers to end the world – all classic signs of schizophrenia, but even with a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, Dean and Sam Winchester were too high functioning and too cognizant of how their thoughts appeared to others. As always, the Winchesters are a mystery.

"Do you have anything else to add?" JJ finishes off with.

"I'll say this. Dean never once belittled me, tried to find out personal details to manipulate me, or made a sexual advance. I've seen all three a lot in the years I've been interviewing serial killers. And he showed me nothing but the highest respect for Castiel. He would attack anyone who belittled Castiel and what Dean put him through. You say that Castiel has been recorded with Dean recently."

JJ nods.

"No serial killing partners truly have a stable relationship. We know that. It devolves with killing, or the balance is upset because the submissive partner objects to the dominant partner's control – something always goes wrong. Usually under stress from law enforcement."

"Yes," JJ agrees.

"I don't think you'll see that in this case. Don't depend on it. That's my advice."

JJ taps her handwritten notes. "Because they love each other?"

"Through everything … Yes. I think so." Dr. Merris unexpectedly smiles. "Dean Winchester is a very strange case."

"I'll keep that in mind," JJ says, meaning it. "Thank you so much for your help and flying over here."

"Let me know if you need anything else," Dr. Merris says. "I have to admit, this is shaping up to be one of the most interesting cases of the century. A kidnapped FBI agent who escaped, then returned to his captor and turned into a new kind of serial killer? Interesting indeed."

JJ smiles a bit painfully. "Yeah. I just wish it didn't involve one of us."

Dr. Merris dips her head in acknowledgement. "Yes."

And the interview ends.

* * *

Rossi and JJ next interview is with Stephen Bailey.

Stephen was a high-level stock broker when he met Castiel in a gay bar, roughly four months or so after Castiel's escape. His blond hair is going gray, matching his gray eyes. He's very different from Dean Winchester, though on a superficial level they are similar. Both are attractive and charming. JJ remembers that from the single dinner that Castiel brought Stephen to, when he wanted his boyfriend to meet the team. Castiel, shy and laughing, was a joy to witness back then. JJ heard about the breakup well after it happened, though that was probably partially because Morgan's son was born around the same time.

Stephen sits down in Hotchner's office, while Hotchner is gone for the day. No one sits behind the desk.

"Thanks for coming," JJ says, taking a seat herself and opening up her notes.

"We appreciate it," Rossi adds.

"Yeah, it's not a problem. I moved, but I still have a lot of friends here to see, so." Stephen shrugs, and taps the arm of the chair while not even appearing to notice he was doing it.

Rossi responds by leaning forward, though his body language is open, inviting intimacy and empathy. "I want you to know you're not in trouble."

Stephen winces. "That's good." And he relaxes, just a bit.

"We mostly want to interview you for your perspective on Castiel, and anything you can tell us about Castiel and Dean Winchester," JJ says, copying Rossi's posture and smiling. Interview techniques are less fakery and manipulation than altering certain details in order to allow openness, when not dealing with a potential criminal.

Stephen sighs. "Did Dean call Castiel 'Cas'?"

JJ blinks. "Yes, he did."

"I always thought it was odd that the first name Castiel gave me wasn't the one he went by," Stephen continues. "That would explain it."

Interesting bit of Castiel's psychology. After he escaped, he still thought of himself on Dean's terms, at least for a while.

"Can you tell us how you met, and about your relationship?" JJ asks. Open ended questions are best at this stage of an interview.

Stephen nods. Castiel, according to Stephen, was very intelligent and responsive. He put his whole focus on Stephen when they were together, very consciously so. At the same time, Castiel was very vulnerable and that showed. Stephen calls them 'tics,' but JJ knows them as triggers. 'A match made in heaven' was a trigger. Being touched in certain ways was a trigger. Words and events were triggers, often random ones that Stephen never had context for. Their relationship was built on a mutual attraction to each other, sexually and emotionally, but Stephen was the caregiver. In Stephen's words, Castiel needed someone to take care of him and to have a healthy relationship with. In Castiel's words, he needed someone who wouldn't psychoanalyze him.

Rossi glances at JJ when Stephen says that, and the look on his face speaks volumes. It's natural on one hand to be wary of people who can't help but see the psychology of your situation, but the team never formally 'psychoanalyzed' Castiel, and wouldn't have out of respect for his privacy. What did Castiel fear that they would see?

As Castiel recovered, he needed less emotional support, though Stephen doesn't attribute that to the breakup.

JJ can't help but wonder if Stephen was a Dean replacement. Rossi asks the question.

"No, I don't think so. He liked that we weren't very similar. I mean, being with me was definitely a result of what happened to him – when he first came on to me, he admitted it was a test for himself because he'd never been with a man previously."

"Would you mind telling us why he ended the relationship?" JJ asks.

"It wasn't really him that ended it, honestly. I mean, it was mutual, but I think it was mostly my fault. I knew going in that Castiel was a guy who loved his work, just like I did – even though our work was, well, very different – and Castiel was very clear about that being respected." Stephen pauses, and there's a bit of old grief in his next words. "I didn't want him getting hurt. He was really –" Stephen stops.

"We need to know everything you can tell us," JJ says gently. "Everything is relevant."

"He was really fucked up about sex. And I couldn't help but link his kidnapping to his work, you know? And then he'd come home all scraped up and bruised, or limping – it was always something. And I hated that. I wanted him safe. And then my mom got ill, and I realized I really wanted … really wanted a safe life, and a family to go with it."

"Did Castiel initiate the breakup or did you?"

"Like I said, it was mutual, but he brought it up. We were fighting a lot, and I just didn't want to let go. He told me that I deserved better than him, which hurt to hear, and I told him that wasn't true. Because it wasn't." Stephen shakes his head. "I don't know what happened, if he really murdered that guy, but Castiel – Castiel was good. At his heart. That much I know."

JJ nods. "If it helps, it looks like the murder was to save an innocent man."

Stephen lets out a rough breath. "Yeah, it does."

"What did Castiel say about Dean?" Rossi asks.

Stephen's mouth twists. "Lots of things, really, but he never really offered many details. He loved and hated the guy, though."

"Could you explain what you mean by that?"

"Well." Stephen shifts uncomfortably. "One of the first times –" He straightens. "One of the first times we got intimate, I felt all these scars on his hip. He told me he'd done them to himself when he lost hope of escape, and it was – sad, I guess. There was hate there, too, but then he said, he said that he loved Dean, past tense. Things like that. And then he'd tell me that he couldn't talk to you guys about Dean because of everything you knew, but he was upset about Dean's capture. He had a panic attack in front of me after Dean turned himself in. And he said that Dean wasn't an evil person."

"He said Dean wasn't an evil person?" Rossi asks, raising an eyebrow.

Stephen nods. "Yeah." He looks briefly thoughtful, and then says, "You know, first time that Castiel explained Dean to me, not even using his name, he said that Dean was an abusive ex."

"He specifically framed it as relationship?" JJ asks.

"And he said that's not the term the FBI would use."

"Did you ever feel like he was communicating with Dean during your relationship?" Rossi asks.

"No. Definitely not. Dean was completely in the past. Castiel's feelings for him were fucked up, but he had no desire to see Dean at all, from what I could tell. And he was really cautious about even letting me know where he lived."

Castiel's relationship with Stephen mostly occurred during the time period before Dean turned himself in. JJ wrote down Dr. Merris's suspicions about Castiel being the one to provide 'not professional' help to Dean. It would fit, in a sense. Castiel believed Dean was not pure evil, even framing Dean's murders as vigilante killings, which are far more palatable than the killing of innocents, regardless of legality. If Castiel did talk to Dean therapeutically – which sounds insane, but so much of this is – then its possible he did so out of altruism and the fucked up bond they possessed, rather than a desire to restart the relationship. Morgan believed that Castiel forgiving Dean in prison was really, truly the end of it between them.

What Morgan thinks now, who knows.

Rossi asks, "I know you were asked this before, but when was the last time Castiel contacted you?"

"About two months ago. We've exchanged a few emails here and there since we broke up. We wanted to stay friends." Stephen clears his throat. "I'm seeing someone. He was happy for me."

"He never mentioned Dean?"

"Not since we broke up, no."

Castiel and Stephen's relationship broke up several months before Dean's escape. JJ wonders if Castiel was preparing for Dean's escape in that sense – getting rid of his current relationship in hope of having another.

Stephen speaks into their thoughtful pause. "I don't regret my relationship with Castiel. Even now. He helped me understand a lot about what I wanted, and I think I did the same for him. He needed a healthy relationship as contrast, I think. And I was happy to provide that, for however long it lasted."

JJ hides her wince. Stephen doesn't know that Castiel has, to all appearances, returned to Dean. She decides not to mention it.

Rossi doesn't bring it up either, as they ask more questions about specific time periods in their relationship, any suspicious behavior, and so on.

When the interview draws to an end, Stephen sighs. "I wish – I hope … I don't know. I hope this works out for the best, whatever that is. Castiel deserves that."

* * *

The other people they interview were peripheral rather than central to Castiel's life. His neighbor when he worked in the BAU was an elderly gentlemen that took care of Castiel's dog Aditi, and ended up training her to be a service dog. Right before Castiel moved, he helped his neighbor get a mutt from the pound, to be trained as a service dog in Aditi's place. The neighbor wasn't able to tell them much about Castiel – he was a polite young man who always tried to be helpful, but he was quiet and often gone at odd hours, or for long periods. He had no distinct memory of what those odd hours were due to his age.

Kirsten, the leader of the kidnapping survivor's group that Dr. Katz sent him to – this one took a lot of digging to find – merely told them that Castiel helped out another survivor, pointing out why she should put the blame on who took her, and not her inability to fight her kidnapper off.

It was an interesting comment. Castiel told another survivor that he was stronger, bigger, and better trained than her – and still he lost to his attacker. How did he go from acknowledging that to leaving with the same man who choked him unconscious?

His neighbor in Detroit had almost nothing to say. She barely remembered him, and they only shared a wall.

Balthazar hung up on them, again.

His boss in Detroit said Castiel was a hard worker and very conscientious towards his colleagues. He only got suspicious after a car matching Castiel's was found near the victim's place of employment the day before he was murdered. Well after the fact, they were able to recover one video showing Castiel coming into the victim's place of employment, the victim hitting Castiel's car, and then Castiel leaving. Forensic evidence at the building set on fire, the murder scene, linked Castiel conclusively to the murder – a fragment of a fingerprint was found on a pair of handcuffs that had somehow been broken apart. The arson investigators questioned why an FBI agent would be at an arson, which linked the cases. The blood that remained after the fire was too degraded for a DNA test, but matched Bower's type.

Castiel's car was caught on a surveillance feed on the way to Ottawa National Forest, where the body was ultimately found. No forensics were found at the burial site, but Agent Anders was convinced by that point.

Agent Stein they interviewed by phone. He only said that he never saw any strange behavior from Castiel.

Castiel's home gave little. Most of the pink items that Balthazar would gift to his brother were missing, as was cash. There were occult symbols on the walls, hidden behind hung pictures, and two bags presumably filled with spell ingredients hidden in potpourri.

After Castiel's escape from Dean they set up surveillance around Castiel's apartment. Castiel kept that up even after he left the BAU, but the digital records were thoroughly wiped with a professional program that corporations use to completely erase data. Penelope is trying to get it back, but isn't hopeful.

The deletion is telling. Dean was, at least once, in Castiel's apartment. Of course it could have been merely to disguise his own coming and going, but why be so thorough with something so circumstantial?

They have all the information they are going to get. It is time to process it and turn it into a profile.

* * *

Monday morning, Hotchner watches the BAU – including Morgan, though he's said he may step out – gather in the conference room, ready to do battle.

Everyone has reviewed the interviews and accompanying notes, but what they hear from witnesses, what they know personally, and what fits in prior patterns with serial killers are all in conflict. Considering that Castiel was their friend and they are now going to attempt to determine his psychological state, it's going to be contentious.

Hotchner waits for everyone to sit down. It's harder to fight from a sitting position, which is why people stand when they get angry. "I know this isn't going to be easy."

Morgan sighs, just barely audible. He looks like he desperately doesn't want to be here.

"But it is necessary. I know that our personal experience with Castiel as a coworker will make it hard to view him objectively, but remember that we have interviewed a great many witnesses in our position, and a great majority of them didn't see their friend either. But facts are facts, and facts override what we believe, we must in turn change our beliefs to fit the facts." Hotchner turns to JJ. "Would you like to begin? I know you interviewed most of our witnesses personally, and we've all reviewed your notes and transcripts."

JJ nods, and keeps it formal. "I've been trying to consider this case, Castiel, chronologically. There is no suspicious behavior from Castiel during his initial time here at the BAU. None. Nor is there sign of belief in the occult, unusual sympathy or hatred towards suspects, or behavioral abnormality in his records or in the memory of his various superiors. I have to conclude that before his kidnapping on October 10th, 2012, Castiel Novak was a regular, law abiding citizen."

"Anyone disagree with that assessment?" Hotchner asks, looking around the room.

None do.

"Go on," Hotchner says.

"Exactly what happened when Castiel was kidnapped, well, we can only go based on what Castiel told us, and speculate on the rest. He was taken from his apartment after he came home from work, and woke up two days later in the bunker that Dean Winchester called home. Castiel claimed that Dean was nice to him, and offered him anything he asked for, except for his freedom. Food, clothing, entertainment, and other comforts."

"That much I think is true," Reid says. "Regardless of what we end up profiling, Dean brought Castiel to his side, and it would make sense for Dean to choose that method. In a study of over five hundred serial killing teams, each and every single one had a psychologically dominating partner, while the other was submissive. And all partner killers gain the submissive partner by first giving them love, affection and affirmation, and then using violence and the threat of removing all traces of that initial peaceful period to manipulate their partner into cooperating."

"You really think Castiel is Dean's partner?" Rossi asks, skeptical. "Look, I know everything we've seen makes it look like Castiel's gone off the deep end, and maybe he has. But I have a hard time buying he'd go from catching serial killers, as a completely stable individual, to helping one commit serial killings. Especially not over a period of eighteen months. For an adult man nearing forty? His personality is unlikely to bend at that point."

"No, I'm not saying that," Reid says. "Merely that regardless of whether we decide Castiel is with Dean passively or actively, Dean acquired that loyalty through manipulation."

JJ shakes her head. "I see what you're saying," she says to Rossi, "but also consider that for a stable man nearing forty, the instances of Stockholm Syndrome to the degree Castiel was subjected to it are nearly unheard of. I can think of one case?" She looks at Reid.

Reid nods.

"The typical victims of Stockholm Syndrome are young girls. So we've already got an unusual case with Castiel, in that he succumbed to it as an adult man who works in law enforcement and is already familiar with it. Does anyone disagree that Castiel had or has Stockholm Syndrome?"

"I don't disagree," Morgan says quietly. "Don't know if he has it now, but he did. I saw that clearly enough."

"No, you're right," Rossi admits. "But still, there's a long way to go to murderer."

"We know he killed Bower," JJ points out. "Perhaps to save Agent Stein, but he still did it. If he believes in Dean's delusions, could he do the same with others?"

Hotchner interjects immediately. "Let's not go there yet, we haven't established that."

"Well," Rossi says after a moment of silence, "was there anything that indicated Castiel believed Dean's version of the world?"

"Only in absence," JJ says. "You noted," she nods at Hotchner and Morgan, "that he ignored Dean's previous crimes whenever he talked about Dean, as if they did not exist. While it's possible he focused on his own trauma, that could also mean he no longer considered Dean's past actions as crimes, only those actions committed against him personally."

"That's probably the strongest evidence we have for that," Rossi points out. "It's circumstantial."

"Castiel isn't just smart. He's clever," Reid says. "He knew, from the beginning, exactly what we would look for. We've never profiled someone as skilled in profiling as Castiel is."

"I take your point, but the truth does come out eventually."

"And I think it will. But we don't have all the data we need in this case. If Castiel had simply fled, we could profile what he would do. But he didn't. He went to Dean Winchester. That complicates things immensely, because we don't know the full extent of their past and current relationship. Is Castiel a passive partner, looking away while Dean commits his crimes, or is he actively participating?" Reid shrugs. "There's no way to know at this point."

"If," Hotchner says, picking up a pen, "Castiel had simply fled, what would we have profiled? Put Dean Winchester away for the moment."

It's not an easy thing to do. Dean Winchester, in his various forms – suspect, serial killer, kidnapper of a friend, enigma – has been in the minds of the BAU for over a decade. He didn't haunt them, not until Castiel disappeared, but his profile has been gone over so many times, even if only in brief after another police report, that he would even pop up in discussions about other killers. Even then, he never was quite like any other. And after Castiel came back, Dean was wrapped up in so much of what Castiel did and how he acted that it's hard to separate him from this case. That kind of effect is natural, for a victim in recovery, but they are somewhere different now. Have been for six weeks.

Reid speaks up first. "Castiel committed the murder to save his colleague. His friend. He ran because he doesn't believe he should go to prison for that. That suggests at some point that his belief in the law and the criminal justice system was compromised."

"Regardless of the rest, that much is true," Morgan adds.

Reid doesn't acknowledge the comment, though not out of rudeness. He's just focusing on the profile he's putting together. "He would not be likely to commit another crime. He would run, not wildly, but to evade pursuit, and then ultimately to find a new home. He would maintain contact with his brother, even if one way, and he would live out the rest of his life with his new set of morals. He would only commit murder in a similar, extreme scenario to his first murder, though he would likely find the second time, and third if it happened, much easier. But I would think that unlikely. The average person doesn't come across people who 'deserve' to be murdered all that often, and Castiel wouldn't kill for thrills or even for self-esteem, nor would he seek such people out."

Hotchner imagines it. Castiel dragging Bower to the crime scene, shooting him and then beheading him. Setting the building on fire. Pulling the body to his car, and driving hours to the dump site, where he spent at least half an hour digging the bullets out of Bower's corpse with a knife, then digging the grave and rolling the body in. Driving home, taking a shower, and going to work like nothing happened.

He must have hated himself, for a time. And yet, he must have moved beyond that, because he took the step of fleeing the consequences of his actions. He felt he didn't deserve prison. Hotchner cannot help but think that was a conscious choice.

Reid makes an arch with his hands, a sign he's pulling something out of his memory to put this together. "If he did commit more murders, he would eventually devolve and self-destruct, as his conscience and his belief he's saving others would inevitably begin to spar, because eventually something would go wrong, and he wouldn't be capable of handling the guilt. This first murder indicates his moral sense is compromised, but not broken."

It's clarifying to hear Castiel's profile and his crimes this way. Hotchner can see it in the body language of everyone here, even Morgan. Castiel, when seen by himself, is a simple case to profile.

"Castiel would know that," JJ says quietly. "How each successive murder would affect him."

Rossi frowns. "He'd avoid it if at all possible."

"In the absence of Dean Winchester," JJ adds.

Although Hotchner was the one to ask the question, Reid's analysis is edifying but not necessarily correct. They have to consider that, while wrapping their minds around this. "Has Castiel ever truly been without him? Dean stalked the area Castiel lived to see him, and according to Dean's psychologist Dr. Merris, it's possible Castiel was communicating with Dean. Then we have Dean turning himself in, which is unlikely in the absence of another force, emotional or otherwise."

"Plus," JJ says, "Morgan noted that Dean said 'Don't ask her' when Castiel saw him prison, presumably referring to the redhead who helped him escape – at least twice – who we still haven't identified. That indicates Castiel knows who she was and could communicate with her at will, and that Dean knew that. That's connection through a third person."

"So can we agree that Castiel began communicating with Dean sometime after Dean found him on a walk?" Assuming Castiel told the truth about that. Hotchner thinks Castiel, generally speaking, mostly told the truth. Castiel never intended for his life to go this direction, he's certain of that.

"If Castiel told the truth of that encounter," Reid says.

"If we doubt every word Castiel has said, I think we'll go in circles," Rossi says dryly. "Castiel's story was too consistent to be a pure lie. I think we can assume that most of the time he was truthful."

JJ nods. Morgan leans back in his chair, frowning, but he nods as well.

"Agreed, then," Hotchner says. "Why then did Castiel keep in contact? Did he never recover from Stockholm Syndrome?"

"I know Castiel's psychologist can't give us details, but did she ever express any concern over his ability to do his work?" JJ asks Hotchner.

"No, she didn't."

JJ's reply is matter of fact. "Then we have only his behavior in front of us to go on."

So they pick the Castiel of the past three years apart. His behavior immediately post-escape was within the bounds of what they would expect – PTSD and mixed, but intense, feelings about his captor. Morgan, before Castiel left the BAU, had compiled a list of concerns about Castiel's behavior with Hotchner, and they use that. Castiel knew that his ambivalence about Dean's capture wasn't totally appropriate, but he still expressed those feelings in private, as he did to Stephen. After Dean's incarceration, he seemed to completely stabilize. He had a strong romantic relationship, his interactions with the team were relaxed, friendly, and occasionally intimate, where he would express personal feelings about life. The subject of Dean was put aside if brought up – almost like disinterest. Morgan said that in the notes, too.

"He was trying to put Dean away, mentally," Rossi proposes. "He wasn't there yet, but he was trying."

"If he was trying, why did he help Dean escape?" JJ asks.

"The evidence for that is circumstantial," Reid says.

JJ shrugs lightly. "A lot of our profiles are based on circumstantial information. Our evidence that Castiel helped Dean escape from prison is circumstantial, and yet we still believe knew the red-headed woman caught on security cameras. Or, at least, he had some method of contacting her."

"Someone who he chose not to use," Reid says, then pauses. "At least, not until nine months had passed."

"So what triggered his reversal?" Hotchner asks. "The occult case?"

"The so-called vampires?" Rossi snorts. "It was a major case, but you can't suggest Castiel actually thought they were vampires."

"If he did, going to Dean for help would make sense," JJ argues.

"But that still includes a huge leap." Rossi starts going through the reports in front of him. "I've looked through our cases and while he was more aware of occult aspects to a case, that's nothing unusual – Dean likely serenaded him with details that those in that community believe in. Nothing I remember him saying suggested he thought the psychoses of our various unsubs were real."

"He argued against just that several times," Reid adds. "Four, that I can recall."

"So four in your presence," JJ says dryly.

Reid gives her a little smile.

"No, he was careful if he did buy into Dean's delusions."

"We keep going back to that," Rossi says. "But there's no evidence –"

"He once called a grave desecration a 'salt and burn,'" Hotchner recalls.

Rossi's not buying it. "It would be natural for him to use Dean's terminology after eighteen months, if for no other reason than not to aggravate Dean's psychosis."

"If he didn't believe in Dean's delusions, why go to him?" JJ asks.

"It's possible," Reid says, "that Castiel is trying to regain the sense of love that he had while imprisoned, false or not. Castiel could be with Dean because the rest of his life has fallen apart – he is a fugitive, and has the entire BAU looking for him – and he wants that sense of security that Dean provided. There's little doubt that Dean would welcome him with open arms, and do what he could to please Castiel while still continuing his killings."

"But you said yourself that Castiel's sense of morality is not yet broken," JJ points out.

"Not all partners of serial killers are active in their partner's crimes. Castiel could be passively looking the other way."

Rossi grimaces. "I hate to think that of him."

"It would explain his behavior," Reid says, shrugging, "but at the same time, I have a hard time believing that of Castiel."

"Profiling is based on circumstantial information," Hotchner nods at JJ, "but I don't think we can include something as radically different from Castiel's previous personality as delusional beliefs. I think Reid's analysis fits better, given what we currently know."

JJ sighs. "You're right. It's just that there are missing pieces, and Castiel believing Dean's delusions seems to fit. If this wasn't Castiel we were talking about, would we go as far as to say the suspect is delusional?"

"This isn't another case," Rossi objects.

"We might, but every profiling case is different," Hotchner replies to JJ. "While I think it was good to see Castiel separate from Dean, we can't separate Castiel from Castiel Novak, Special Agent."

JJ tilts her head a bit, and then nods. "True enough."

"Do we somewhat agree, then?" Reid asks. "Castiel is probably not delusional?"

"Probably not," JJ allows.

"Then the question is whether Castiel is passive in allowing Dean's crimes, or actively involved," Hotchner says. "Given that we don't think he's delusional, or don't have the evidence for it, I can't see him being active."

Reid frowns for a moment. "Possibly. But wouldn't Dean want him active? And Castiel would have to be the submissive one in the partnership, because there's no way that Dean is."

"Every known case of partners seems to follow that," Rossi agrees. "But I have a hard time seeing Castiel as the submissive partner. While the typical victim of Stockholm Syndrome is a young girl, when it comes to submissive partners of serial killers it's more typical to have a middle aged woman with a history of sexual or physical abuse, that the dominating partner spends time manipulating. Castiel doesn't fit any of those criteria, in either case."

"Dean doesn't fit any of any criteria," JJ says. "Why would Castiel?"

"But that aside," Reid says, "Dean did follow the pattern of a dominating partner in some respects. Typically the dominating partner will be very loving and caring towards the person they are trying to bend to their will, and then they will withdraw that love when the person they are targeting is emotionally dependent on them. For the submissive partner, acting out crimes is partly out of a lack of moral sense about other people, but also to please the dominant partner and regain that feeling of love, affection, and security."

"Castiel said to Morgan that Dean provided him with a sense of love and security," JJ says.

Morgan winces, but nods. He reluctantly says, "From what I was told, Dean was very rarely physically violent. We saw evidence of Castiel being beaten. The photographs and video from Dean's camera showed bruises and lacerations inflicted during his captivity, but Castiel was very firm in that those violent encounters only happened three times, each during an escape attempt."

"But that does show that as soon as Castiel became dangerously independent, Dean would respond violently. He could be doing that now, for all we know," JJ says. "Castiel says he doesn't want to participate in, say, killing a vampire, how would Dean respond? By chaining him up? Removing love and affection? Drugging him? He could do all of those things, and given that Castiel has PTSD and is more psychologically fragile – well, I could see Castiel being beaten down enough to look the other way. Especially," she adds, "if I try not to think that this is Castiel we're talking about. He has the triggers necessary to be manipulated."

"Agreed," Hotchner says. "Rossi? Reid?" Pause. "Morgan?"

"That's as close as we're going to get with the information we have," Reid says.

Rossi shakes his head. "Maybe I'm hoping for the best, though. I'm not unbiased here."

Morgan is silent, but the others wait. Finally he says, "No relationship with Dean could be healthy. I just wish we could all see Castiel a little more clearly."

Hotchner knows Morgan was hit hard by losing Castiel. It surprised him when Morgan said he was coming to this meeting, after having said he wanted nothing to do with profiling Castiel. Still, Hotchner hopes this will help provide some kind of closure, not just for Morgan, but for everyone. Making Castiel 'make sense' is the only way to move on. "I agree," Hotchner says simply. "I'll write up the profile. You can all go home, and get some rest. We have a lot of work to do."

They still haven't replaced Castiel, though had a temporary agent for a few months. Hotchner is still trying to decide on a permanent new member.

Morgan's the first to stand, and he leaves alone. The others linger a bit, talk about life and family as they gather their things, and then they go home.

Hotchner writes the profile, which is sent out similarly to how Dean Winchester's was when Castiel was his prisoner. The first time Castiel was his prisoner. They hear nothing back, and the team assembled to investigate all of Castiel's cases finds nothing untoward in any of them. Defense attorneys have a field day, but most of the cases are not overturned by the courts. What few are, will be retried.

The deputy director gives Hotchner a very angry phone call, but Hotchner isn't worried about his career. He's done this too long.

The team picks up and drops the profile a few times, trying to find new information when they have a break from cases, but there is nothing new to find.

A year passes.

* * *

It's not often that Hotchner will call the team in on a weekend without a case.

Well, this is a case that isn't exactly theirs, but it is still a case.

Hotchner got the phone call, but Penelope was the one to follow up and get all the information from the local law enforcement agencies. There's hours of video tape and written statements from four officers.

In them, Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak are speaking to witnesses and stalking their eventual victim. Cynthia Dernwood was a young mother of a five year old boy, and on June 16th, she was murdered in a ritualistic fashion in the basement of her home. Her son was sent to live with his father, a state away. On June 21st, Dean and Castiel were positively identified by the local police department. They had posed as reporters investigating a series of murders spanning six months previous, which the police had not identified as being connected because although the murders – six in all – were all similar in MO, they were committed in different, nearby cities, and appeared to be burglaries gone wrong, with one exception.

In each, one fingernail and a chunk of hair were missing.

And then Dean and Castiel murdered Cynthia Dernwood, and left the area.

The case is laid out in photographs, detective notes and interviews, two drawings from sketch artists based on witness testimony, and security camera footage. Hotchner sent all of it to each member of the team, and requested their presence. And it was a request. Hotchner isn't going to force anyone to profile a former friend if they don't feel up to it. Only Morgan took that out.

The rest file in. JJ looks like she was pulled from the park – her hair is in a ponytail and although she threw a suit jacket on, she's wearing a t-shirt underneath. Rossi looks as put together as usual, as does Reid, except Reid's hair is even more unruly than usual, and he has dark circles under his eyes.

"I'm sorry for pulling everyone away from their time off," Hotchner begins.

JJ rubs her eyebrow, mouth pinched. "I didn't look over everything before I got here, but Hotch … this looks bad."

"Very bad," Reid says. "I took a cab and looked over the files you sent."

Rossi snorts as he gets more comfortable in his chair. "Wish I'd thought of that, I drove in. How bad are we talking?"

Reid answers from his perfect memory. "Dean and Castiel were seen together, posing as reporters, seven times. They both asked questions of various witnesses, drove in the same car – Dean's '67 Impala – and in surveillance footage they appeared at ease with each other, though they were not visibly affectionate. Witnesses, likewise, also described them as friendly towards each other, and after they were identified, the detectives went back and asked questions to ascertain if Castiel was being held against his will, and as far as they could tell he was not. Castiel interviewed neighbors at several crime scenes by himself, and Dean did not appear concerned when he left Castiel alone, either. There is also footage of Dean's Impala driving to the victim's home shortly before her death, and there was a passenger inside. Boot sizes, of which there were two at the crime scene, match Dean and Castiel."

"Garcia is checking for more footage and any other electronic means of tracing their activity," Hotchner adds.

After a moment, JJ says, "I know I've fought hard for the idea that Castiel is complicit, because it made sense to me. But I didn't want it to be true."

Over the past year, Castiel has gone from a taboo topic to simply a quiet, sad one. The suddenness of losing him wasn't quite as strong as it could have been, because Castiel left the BAU before he completely self destructed. There was a period of separation without that much anxiety or sense of grief. Elle Greenway's self destruction was far more abrupt, but also less severe. Hotchner knows JJ thinks about the similarities between her and Castiel – both victims who couldn't handle what happened to them. And yet, they diverge there, because while both committed a murder, Castiel then returned to the person who had so grievously harmed him.

Rossi puts his hand on the physical copy of the file Hotchner put on the conference table. "None of us did."

Reid clears his throat and sits up. "But it's our job to figure this out now."

"Well," and JJ looks like she's pulling herself together mentally, "then I think we should start with the crime committed, it will tell us the most."

As it always does. Hotchner nods. "I agree."

They all spend the next thirty minutes familiarizing themselves with all the different pieces of evidence. Reid goes over it with them, though it's not really necessary in his case.

"First thought," JJ says, "is that Castiel, when he escaped, said that Dean was a vigilante killer. To our eyes, Cynthia Dernwood and the six victims of what appeared to be burglaries gone wrong are unrelated. But something made both of them think that they were related, and then they concluded – I believe – that Cynthia was the perpetrator, and then they killed her."

Reid adds, "Ritualistically. They cut out her heart and burned it, and mutilated some of her skin. Dean must have believed her to be a supernatural creature that he had to kill to prevent more murders."

Rossi grimaces. "Did Castiel believe that?"

"He must have," Reid says. "All evidence points to him being a full participant."

It's laid out in black and white, really. Literally in some cases, as the security cameras were often old or cheap. Castiel and Dean were videotaped entering and leaving areas together, and they got one motel room instead of two. The police found some fingerprints in the motel room but nothing else of any substance. When a traffic cam caught the black Impala heading towards the victim's home, there was clearly a passenger. Boot prints matching Dean and Castiel's respective sizes were found in and around the home. It's one thing to drag Castiel along to motels while Dean commits his murders, but to take Castiel to actual crime scene? That would require some degree of cooperation.

"I think that's pretty clear," JJ says. "But the signature of the crime is all Dean Winchester."

"Dean kills in a ritualistic fashion most of the time," Rossi says, adding to her point. "They used his car – Castiel likely would have ditched something visible for a stolen vehicle, harder to trace – and they didn't destroy the home. We know that Castiel took extreme measures previously in order to remain undetected, including burning a building down, deleting security footage, and hiding the body. Dean doesn't usually bother with that, and they don't here."

"Dean's crimes always have a twisted logic. What was it here?" Reid asks.

"Sometimes the supernatural element he believes to be present is obvious, but it isn't in this case, though I think he definitely thought Cynthia wasn't human. Or he had to kill her in some specific fashion for a spell, perhaps," JJ says.

"Yes, but where's the link between Cynthia and the other six murder victims? They all lived in different towns from her – nearby, certainly, but not that close – and how did Dean even choose to focus on her?" Hotchner asks. Weird details are Dean Winchester's forte, and it's better for profiling to understand that.

Reid taps the file with his forefinger. "Cynthia's neighbors were asked about her behavior by both Dean and Castiel. They reported she had a major personality shift six months before – exactly when the murders started."

Hotchner frowns. "I don't recall there being a reason for that in her file, though we can ask Garcia if there was a change in her life around that point."

"There's not one listed, no," Reid says.

"So coincidence, or more?" JJ asks. "We know that in some cases, witnesses or victims felt indebted to Dean rather than frightened of him. Is it possible Cynthia was actually involved with these previous murders?"

"Possible, but highly unlikely," Rossi says, shaking his head. "Her life and personality just don't fit that kind of model, and nothing matching her was found at any of the crime scenes."

JJ turns to Reid. "How did they describe the personality change?"

"She became colder, and in one neighbor's words, 'She took care of that boy like he lived across the street, not in her home.'"

"So her behavior towards her son changed," JJ concludes. "Could Dean have thought he was saving the boy?"

"He usually does," Rossi says dryly.

JJ raises an eyebrow. "Did Castiel?"

"I think psychosis is a kinder thing to think about Castiel, rather than seeing him as someone ruthless enough to murder a single mother of a five year old boy just to satisfy his partner," Reid says quietly.

Hotchner thinks it hits home for him; Reid was raised by his mother alone, and they have always been close, despite her schizophrenia. "I think it's fair to conclude he is sharing Dean's delusions, even if he isn't actively psychotic himself."

No one asks the obvious question, because no one has the answer: how did Castiel come to such a psychological state that he could be bent to see Dean's version of the world? Certainly Castiel was traumatized after he escaped, but he never exhibited delusional or psychotic thinking while under tremendous stress at work, and if that underlying problem exists, stress almost always will bring it to the surface. Castiel appeared very stable, with the one exception of dealing with anything relating to Dean. He was clearly conflicted when it came to Dean's capture, and the capture of those around him, like 'Charlie,' the hacker who helped Dean previously.

"We know now," Reid says slowly, "that Castiel is delusional. I can only conclude that the initial break from reality occurred during his captivity."

"Drugs?" JJ suggests. "Psychological pressure combined with extreme isolation?"

Reid nods. "So he broke, but not completely. He tried to put the fractured pieces of himself together –"

"And then," JJ says, "Dean came back. I bet Dean did pass on a way for them to communicate. He must have, if Dean talked to someone who 'wasn't a professional,' and Morgan's theory about Dean knowing about Castiel's sprained ankle is true." Referring, of course, to Dean seeming to know personal details about Castiel's life, when they were supposedly not in contact.

"Dean continued to apply psychological pressure," Hotchner says. "And at some point, Castiel snapped."

"Before or after Dean escaped from prison?" Reid asks.

JJ grimaces. "I wish I knew, but I'm not sure it matters to the profile."

"Unless Castiel helped Dean escape, as would appear to be the case. If he did, then he was capable of appearing normal for a prolonged period while actually incredibly mentally ill. What if Weston Bower isn't the first crime Castiel committed?"

Reid's question is a horrifying one, and not one Hotchner ever seriously considered. The FBI team that went over all of Castiel's cases found nothing. "We've looked at Castiel's history with the BAU in order to determine his psychological state. Did anyone ever notice mysterious disappearances, on Castiel's part or any witnesses or victims?"

JJ shakes her head, as does Rossi. "Not offhand," Rossi adds.

"Nothing unexplainable," Reid says, "but I did see him leave with a flimsy excuse every once in a while." Pause. "Three times over a year."

"We'll look at those cases and any surrounding murders more closely," Hotchner says. "In the meantime, let's not speculate about that, and go on with what we have."

"What we have is a serial killing team," JJ says, "using supernatural forces as their reasoning."

"That's pretty undeniable at this point," Rossi agrees. "But I have a hard time seeing either Dean or Castiel as the submissive partner, which suggests to me that this isn't a normal partnership."

JJ sighs heavily. "Castiel makes more sense, though I see what you mean. Castiel was … timid, when he came back, but that changed quickly and he became as assertive as he normally was. Remember, he left his family, who shunned him, to pursue a career in law enforcement. He was hardly a man inclined to change his life just to please others, and he regained all of that despite what Dean put him through."

Additionally, Reid says, "Castiel isn't young, insecure, possessing of low intelligence, or needy – all typical traits of a submissive partner. Debatable if we could call him mentally ill. He might be, through an externally applied force."

Dean, that is.

"If he's sharing Dean's delusions, he could be so psychologically broken he's willing to take orders," Rossi suggests. "Thus becoming insecure and needy, which would be what Dean would need to maintain control. Also consider the fact that Dean kept Castiel prisoner for a long time, speaking to his own need to have company. Castiel, out of damage caused by Dean, comes to need him and even feel he 'loves' Dean, and Dean in return feels validated. That kind of unhealthy relationship is well documented in serial killing pairs."

Reid nods. "Dean inflicts pain, mostly psychological, then comfort. Castiel breaks, at some point, and comes to need that comfort, and will cope with the pain in order to get it. Usually the dominating partner is slow to introduce their partner to violence and sadism. Once the submissive partner complies with outrageous demands, the dominating partner knows they've struck gold."

JJ shakes her head after a moment. "Then why not return to Dean sooner? He waited three years."

"They could have been hunting victims together," Reid says. "I don't think it's likely, we never saw Dean in Detroit and I know there were no cases that would match Dean's MO near Castiel, but it's possible."

"If they were, it was with difficulty, considering Castiel's work. He was often working weekends and taking shifts for Agent Stein. And then why kill Weston Bower, who Dean couldn't care less about, in order to save Agent Stein? You all saw my notes from Dr. Merris. She specifically said we should not consider Dean and Castiel a normal serial killing pair. That Dean did not, in her opinion, fit the psychological mold we're familiar with."

Reid sits back. "She also told you that their relationship would not devolve normally. In other cases of serial killing partners, the submissive partner is always the one to fall apart – often when they realized that the dominating partner was just using them, and was not in fact even capable of loving them, combined with an outside stressor like law enforcement closing in." Reid frowns and recites a quote from Dr. Merris: "'There is no doubt in my mind that Dean loved Castiel. It was not a healthy love, and dangerous for them both, but I would call it love all the same.'"

Hotchner recognizes that he pieced together two quotes, but the impact remains the same. "She's the only psychologist Dean ever cooperated with."

JJ nods. "I'm not sure I know how she got to her assessment, even after our interview – it flies so much in the face of Dean's other behaviors – but we can't discount it."

Rossi leans back and chuckles. "We've been stupid."

"Oh?" Reid asks, not at all offended.

"Sam and Dean Winchester. Our original profile. We had such a hard time determining if Sam or Dean was the dominating partner. Remember? We eventually concluded Dean was, but Sam strayed from Dean several times, acted independently with no problems, and even hunted his own victims alone, although rarely. Castiel is Sam's replacement." Rossi spreads his hands, as if to indicate that says it all.

And he's not wrong. Hotchner has focused the team on Dean and Castiel as a team, but Dean's history with Sam is incredibly relevant. How had he missed that? He shakes his head ruefully and says, "We've been trying to untangle Castiel for so long that we forgot he's more than someone we knew, he's a parallel for Sam."

"Castiel said that Dean respected his intelligence and stubbornness, and his career in law enforcement." JJ pauses. "Dean wasn't lying. He wanted another Sam, and he got one."

"Castiel took the LSAT," Reid adds randomly. "He got a 173."

"Sam Winchester also took the LSAT and got a high score, since he was intending to be a lawyer before Dean got him from Stanford," Rossi adds. "Though I don't recall it offhand."

"174." Reid, of course.

No serial killer is exactly the same as another. But there are distinct patterns, or the BAU would be useless. Hotchner knows that; the team depends on them as a guideline. "The Winchesters have never properly fit our categories. Do we think that Castiel and Dean are unlike essentially all other serial killing pairs?"

"Perhaps not essentially different," Reid replies. "But in this respect, I think it's possible," he says to Hotchner.

"If the shoe fits," Rossi says with a shrug. "Like you said, the Winchesters have never made sense."

"Castiel might be partly submissive, considering he's living Dean's lifestyle – same car, hunting victims in mostly the same way, living on the road," JJ says. "But I think we have to consider Sam as key to understanding them. Sam, like you said, didn't entirely fit being the submissive partner either. And then Castiel didn't leave his work to join Dean in hunting victims, which would typically be demanded of a submissive partner – handing over complete control." She pauses. "Half psychological manipulation, half genuine seduction. That's why Castiel didn't leave his work. Dean just waited for Castiel to come to him."

After a moment of silence, Reid sighs and says, "I wish he'd spoken to one of us. Said something. Asked for help."

JJ rubs her eyebrow. "Maybe he did. To Morgan."

"It would explain why Morgan isn't here," Reid says. "I know –"

Hotchner cuts him off. "I don't think we should judge each other for being involved or not being involved in this. I have no doubt Morgan did the best he could to support Castiel and keep him away from Dean."

JJ nods. "You're right. I know that. I just …"

"We should try to finish the profile," Hotchner says gently.

"Finish the profile," Rossi says, "and then I say those of who can should get a drink. I think we're due."

JJ smiles at him, hiding it with her hand. "I'm with you there."

"Did you know that beer is generally put into three categories? Bottom fermentation –"

"Save it for when we drink," Rossi says dryly, cutting Reid off.

"Let's finish this, then, yes, let's go have a drink," Hotchner says, smiling at them both. Despite everything they have been through, their core friendships have remained strong. Hotchner is proud of them for that.

The profile they arrive to is not neat and elegant. Hotchner takes all the ideas and conclusions the team came to, types it up and sends it to the FBI team attempting to track down and capture Dean and Castiel.

In plain words, all that they didn't want to say:

 _Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are a serial killing pair, which means they will work together for the shared goal of a murder. They are sexually involved, and they are mission oriented, though their mission is one steeped in Winchester's psychosis and belief in the supernatural. Regardless of this fact, they are extremely organized and will be difficult to apprehend. Although most serial killing pairs have a dominant partner and a submissive partner, Winchester and Novak largely do not fit this type. Winchester is probably the more dominant and Novak more submissive, but Novak is highly dangerous by himself and will not be broken by separation from his partner. He will also not break down in interrogation as is typical for the submissive partner._

 _Dean Winchester began committing murders under the auspices of his father, John Winchester. He likely experienced severe abuse and brainwashing as a child, which in combination made him psychotic and cemented his belief in his father's view of the world: supernatural creatures exist, and are out there killing people. Only Winchester can save them, and thus Winchester places himself in the role of savior, perhaps explaining his reticence in killing law enforcement personnel. Winchester's killings likely started sometime in his early teen years. Sometime in 2010, he lost his partner, Sam Winchester, who was his brother; they were not sexually involved. Winchester continued to commit murders. He is highly intelligent, charming, and manipulative. In October 2012, he kidnapped then FBI Agent Castiel Novak._

 _Novak was held prisoner for eighteen months, until he escaped by walking away from a motel room where Winchester was holding him; Winchester did not restrain Novak up because he did not believe Novak would attempt escape. Although Novak desired freedom, at some point during his captivity he became convinced Winchester's version of the world was correct, possibly through a combination of psychosis-inducing drugs, extreme isolation, and abuse, including rape. For three years Novak maintained an appearance of normality and returned to work, so he is highly capable of hiding his delusional thinking, just like Winchester. At some point during this period, he reestablished contact with Winchester, including a romantic relationship, and fully broke from reality. In March 2017, Novak murdered a criminal his FBI team was investigating as a person of interest, related to the poisoning of his partner in the FBI. In May 2017, he fled from his home, a mere twenty four hours before he was due to be arrested._

 _Winchester and Novak make an extremely dangerous team. Given Novak's law enforcement history, he is possibly even more dangerous than his partner when it comes to apprehension. Winchester has more than eighty known victims, while Novak has only one confirmed thus far. Novak is intelligent, well educated, and experienced. He will be able to lead law enforcement astray when he desires to do so, forensically and psychologically._

 _Their crimes committed together will often have a ritualistic element as part of Winchester's psychosis. The recent murder of Cynthia Dernwood, whose heart was excised and then burned, shows that Winchester and Novak together will maintain Winchester's previous pattern of behavior. Winchester has no signature. It is unknown if Novak has a signature. However, since Winchester initially kidnapped Novak in order to gain a partner as a stabilizing force, Dean is less likely to be reckless, and he will have Novak's law enforcement experience to draw on. Unlike typical serial killing pairs, they are strong together and apart. Psychological dividing tactics are unlikely to be effective._

 _In conclusion, Winchester and Novak will continue serially murdering those they believe to be literal monsters. It is likely they will remain organized and unlikely they will devolve or turn on each other. Though they may have brief uneventful periods of six months to a year, they will always return to serial killing, as it is mission oriented. They will not stop until arrested or killed, even if separated._

 _The team makes the following recommendations for capture:_

 _1\. Spread photos of Winchester and Novak nationwide. Inform all news media who will cooperate. Create a tip line if financially feasible._  
 _2\. Inform local law enforcement across the country to be on the lookout for Winchester and Novak when any case appears to have a supernatural element, particularly if that crime is reported as weird, unusual, or ritualistic in the news media. They will often pose as law enforcement, government officials, or reporters. Inform local law enforcement to double check all credentials._  
 _3\. Wherever Winchester is, Novak will be there, and vice versa. They most likely drive one vehicle, a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Plates will vary. Capture plans must take this into account. They will attempt to rescue each other if one is caught, so traps will be effective in this scenario._  
 _4\. Both are armed and have extensive martial arts experience, but will avoid murdering local law enforcement if possible. Overwhelming force is recommended. Waiting to have overwhelming force, even if capture is rendered less likely, is also recommended. They will inflict grievous bodily harm in order to escape._  
 _5\. If logistically possible, search the news media for crimes that would fit Winchester and Novak's profile and gain their interest. Call those local law enforcement officials and have them issue a BOLO. If either is seen, have the local law enforcement wait until the FBI team arrives or overwhelming force can be used for capture._  
 _6\. If capture is not possible, lethal force should be authorized for Novak in addition to the current order on Winchester._

Item number six Hotchner adds on his own. That is his responsibility alone.

* * *

Penelope, wearing a black and white polka dot dress with a bright pink sash, practically stumbles into the conference room, holding a stack of papers and her tablet. She dumps everything she's holding onto the end of the conference table and then digs out her tablet, frantically tapping on it with her finger.

JJ winces. She knows why Penelope looks so harried, because Penelope came to her for help, since JJ used to handle this part.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Penelope says as a gruesome crime scene photo appears on the large screen behind her. "Sorry." She takes a deep breath and nods at JJ, who nods back. "So. I don't know exactly what happened, but the Ventura police department has requested the help of the BAU no less than three times in the last week, and somehow I also got several requests saying they didn't want our help, and they just wanted profiling services from a distance, and I got one that, I, frankly, don't even. I just don't even."

"Start at the beginning," Hotchner advises.

"Take your time, sweetheart," Morgan says, winking at Penelope. It's been a year since they delivered the profile on Castiel and Dean, and beyond some random reports from after the fact, spread across the country, they have heard nothing. The FBI manhunt has been scaled down drastically to a part time effort, and all the higher ups are eager to forget they exist.

The BAU hasn't. But they have moved on. Morgan, perhaps, most of all, considering where he started. He spends his time taking joy in his toddler, and JJ is glad to see it.

Penelope sends Morgan a kiss. "Okay. So, three months ago a series of murders occurred in Ventura, California. Ten known victims so far. Seven of the ten had their hearts cut out, pretty brutally – I kinda threw up in my mouth a bit when I saw some of the photos, I won't lie - and then another three, which were initially seen as unconnected, where the victims throats were slashed almost like an animal attack." Pictures appear on the conference screen.

"Is there any pattern to the deaths, time wise?" Reid asks.

"No. Not that they could tell. First thing they thought was full moon and it being some kind of freak, but it doesn't quite line up." Penelope clears her throat. "But the deaths are speeding up. Two victims last week. That's when they decided to call us. Send a request. And then a take back. And so on and so on and so on …"

Well, it wouldn't be the first time some red tape confused the beginning of a case. Some police departments are very opposed to asking for help, thinking the federal agency will just take over and then take credit. "How did they connect the other three murders?" JJ asks. "Forensically?"

"Yep," Penelope says, popping the 'p.' "Same hair found in eight of the ten, including two of the three." Penelope pauses. "You know what I mean."

"We do," Rossi assures her.

"If the pattern holds, they'll have another murder in two or three days, so – they're pretty anxious to have us help," Penelope finishes. "I've sent details to all of you."

An urgent case, then. Hotchner says, as he always does, "Wheels up in two hours."

* * *

The case unfolds.

All ten victims were killed violently and savagely. In some cases, the victims had injuries not related to subduing or killing them, indicating the unsub enjoyed the act. The hair found in eight of the crime scenes is short, brown, and likely from a male; there were no skin tags, so it fell naturally and was not pulled by the victim. A second set of longer, blond hair was also found, indicating the killer might have a partner, female. They were able to tell the sex, but not get a full DNA sample. No hits in any system.

It doesn't take long to come up with a profile. The dominant partner is the one killing, and he is a hedonistic, thrill seeking serial killer. He will continue to kill, rapidly, as he is unorganized and acting purely on the pleasure of killing. Once his crimes attract too much attention, he is likely to move on. The team profiles him as having a job that allows this, like long-haul trucking. The taking of the heart is symbolic of taking the victim's life, and is kept as a trophy. The submissive partner is likely passive, not actively engaging in crimes, and has been abused to the point of a complete lack of resistance to her partner's kills. It is possible the dominant partner is bringing the submissive partner as a witness, so he can reminiscence about his kills later.

He's also experienced. His first kill shows a well-developed signature. From that, the BAU concludes he likely did some prison time or he had prior victims in another area, as they have no evidence of escalation Penelope is going through records, trying to find any 'escalation' victims in California. After that, she will search surrounding states. If she can find any, it will give them a common point where they can start looking at prison records, work records, and so on. The BAU combs over every detail, trying to find more clues to the unsub's job or identity.

On their first day at the scene, another victim showed up. A woman on her way home from work was dragged into an alleyway and murdered. No sign of sexual assault. Her body was found the next morning. Either they will have another victim, or he will disappear to avoid capture.

Early on the third morning of the case, the lieutenant in charge of the investigation, Lieutenant Waller, walks into the room they set aside for the BAU and clears his throat. "Tip line got an interesting call."

JJ raises an eyebrow. They're all desperate to get some new info, and sure enough, Reid perks up. "Can we hear it?"

Five minutes later, the team assembles and listens. JJ, at least, is hoping for something useful instead of just interesting.

 _"Tip line, can I ask your name?"_

A moment of heavy breathing, then a rough male voice. _"Listen. They're going to run. I see them all the time, and I know. A Dodge truck, they're using a Dodge truck, light blue, I don't know the plates. Heading for Nevada. I can't say anything else, they'll kill me."_

"Can you tell me anything else? What are their names?"

"Uh, brown hair? A guy. And a blond woman. Shit. Fuck. I got to go."

The call ends.

"You think it's real?" Waller asks.

"Send out an APB," Hotchner says. "It might be real, it might not, but we can't take that chance."

Waller flags down an officer.

"It's unlikely to be someone looking for attention, or to be part of a famous case, since they didn't leave a name," Rossi says.

Reid nods. "People that try to inject themselves into the investigation typically are either the perpetrator or a innocent person looking for attention." He turns to JJ. "But we didn't release the information on the hair we found. Brown headed people account for seventy-five percent of the population. Natural blonds are much rarer at two percent, but that's still pretty specific."

"Do we know where the tipper called from?" Hotchner asks.

Waller shakes his head. "No. The tip line doesn't record that, to encourage people to call anonymously."

"Could be a neighbor or family member," Reid suggests.

Rossi hums, then says, "Or someone who doesn't want law enforcement attention for reasons of his own."

"Can we start on the information we have?" JJ asks Lieutenant Waller.

"If that truck exists, we'll find it," he promises.

Ventura PD gets in contact with neighboring cities and begins a massive search for the vehicle. In the meantime, the BAU tries to narrow down their profile. For two days. The blue truck leads nowhere.

It's Reid who notices what breaks the case, of course. Four of the ten crime scene locations were within three to five miles of a construction site. Not entirely statistically significant, but unusual. Penelope goes through employee lists looking for prior convictions that would show the escalation of crimes they expect to find, but ultimately comes up with nothing. Two of the companies who work in the area have no online records, and one of them demands a search warrant before handing it over. Then JJ suggests looking at commutes. All the victims were killed in the evening, which could imply that the male partner is finding victims on his way home. That's how JJ finds the pattern of the victims being along commute paths. The last construction company to send it's employee information is what allows Penelope to link the pattern to one Jordan Smithwood who has a history of robbery.

Robbery doesn't quite fit their profile, but one thing does: he previously lived in South Carolina, during which time there were two violent deaths in the state, where the hearts of the victims were removed. Completely different otherwise, but signatures do develop. What Smithwood calls homes is a ramshackle house that borders an empty warehouse in a poor neighborhood outside of Ventura. According to DMV records he doesn't drive a blue pickup, instead a rusted, white one. There are missing pieces, but they have a reasonable certainty and enough for a search warrant.

A patrol car is sent on by, and the officers report that the house is boarded up, with the door shut and locked. On the second 'random' patrol by the house, it becomes apparent that an immediate entry is necessary.

Though now closed, the door had been kicked open. The lock is hanging uselessly.

The SWAT team, already in the process of assembling, suits up faster. They load up the SWAT van with BAU members accompanying them. Four silent patrol cars follow the van. JJ, loaded up in the back, can't see anything, but she hears the SWAT team members talking about the plan to breach the house.

The van slams to a stop, and everyone tumbles out in perfect order.

"Go!" yells the SWAT leader, and JJ and the other BAU members follow. SWAT enters the house. Decaying walls are the first things JJ sees when the SWAT team breaks off into three groups of two, spreading out. There are couches and coffee tables – several of them – that are slightly less dilapidated. Heavy dust lies in the corners of the room. Past the living room and into the kitchen, behind a table, they find a body.

A blond woman, blood smeared all over her mouth, a bullet wound in her chest. The blood from the wound glistens and is spreading.

"We've got a body," JJ hears over the radio. "Consider the suspect armed and dangerous. He's likely still on the property."

"There's bloody handprints," Morgan says. "Larger than a woman's." The rotting newspaper that litters the ground is smeared with blood, but the walls have distinct outlines of hands.

"Could be running from a third person," Reid suggests. "Another member of the serial killing team?"

Hotchner nods. "Captain, I recommend assuming there is a third person here, potentially here to kill the other two, possibly to eliminate evidence as the dominant killer."

"Got it." The captain relays more orders to his team members, who change from teams up of two to teams of three, the appropriate way to deal with a higher number of suspects. It looks like a well choreographed dance.

The one story house is cleared in a matter of about ten minutes. The only oddity is in the basement, which has two large cages, large enough to hold a human being, though they are empty. Then they head to the back.

Where the backyard fence should be, there's a gaping hole leading to the neighboring warehouse. It looks old, with the edges worn and bits of rebar sticking out, rusted. They'll have to be cautious. JJ nods at Hotchner, her partner for this particular bit. Morgan and Reid make the other pair. All twelve SWAT team members move towards it with JJ, Morgan, Hotchner and Reid in the rear.

The warehouse is dimly lit and full of decaying crates that make half a maze. There are two more bloody handprints.

A gunshot suddenly echoes in the warehouse, then silence falls.

The SWAT team literally bursts through, triangulating where the shot came from and just barreling through rotten crates to get there.

Dean Winchester looks up from a body, an antique gun in hand. "Well, shit."

And not five feet away, Castiel Novak stands in a mirror of his serial killing partner, holding another old gun. For a fraction of a second, Castiel meets JJ's eyes. The former friend, one of many, pointing a gun at him.

"Freeze!" "Hands on the ground!" "Stop!" All at once.

Then Castiel looks at Dean and shouts, "Red!"

Dean bolts left, and Castiel bolts right.

"Open fire!" Hotchner orders. JJ hesitates for a second even as she hears gunshots – is Castiel an immediate threat to others? She knows Dean is, but whether Castiel fulfills the requirements for shooting a fleeing suspect –

Castiel is out of sight, and so is Dean, the second that it took to Hotchner to give his order and the officers to react. Morgan and Reid join the SWAT officers going after Dean, and by default JJ and Hotchner join the officers pursuing Castiel. Castiel runs through the warehouse like he knows where he's going, dodging around crates and avoiding giving them a clear line of fire. When he bolts out into the open – into the commercial district – he sprints for the nearby road lined with trucks and a few personal vehicles.

A succession of quick orders fill's JJ's earpiece, so she doesn't even realize there's uniformed officers on the scene until the squad car shows up, which is a serious sign of how dangerously distracted she is by Castiel's presence.

Castiel almost hits the patrol car, he's going so fast, and then he tries to skirt around the backend of the car, but the officer in the passenger seat rolls out and is pointing a gun in his face within seconds.

There's a moment JJ thinks he'll raise his gun and try to get the officers to shoot him to end it all, but Castiel doesn't do any of that. He stops, takes his finger away from the trigger on his gun, and raises his hands above his head.

"Put the gun down on the ground!" the patrol officer orders.

The order Castiel was waiting for, so the action of putting the gun on the ground won't be misconstrued. JJ knows that, because she knows him. The cop's partner grabs Castiel's gun, then Castiel silently cooperates as the cop orders him to place his hands on his head, kicks his legs wider apart, and then leans him against the hood of the patrol car. Last, the cop puts handcuffs on and asks, "Do you have anything sharp on you? Any weapons?"

Castiel doesn't answer.

The other patrol officer says, "You have the right to remain –"

JJ holsters her gun. _How could he be here? How could we not know?_

"Anything you say can be used in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney –"

 _He's killing with Dean._

"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before –"

 _Castiel is a killer._

"Do you understand your rights as I have explained -"

"JJ." Hotchner's voice.

Castiel is dressed much like Dean, wearing jeans that are worn by work and not as a fashion statement, a black t-shirt and a dark jacket over that, though he's not wearing any plaid. Scuffed, steel-tipped boots. He looks calm and collected as various weapons are removed from his ankle, waist and wrists. When he sees JJ looking at him, he offers a sad smile.

"JJ, we'll let them handle Castiel. Dean Winchester got away," Hotchner says, very evenly.

JJ blinks a few times and looks at Hotchner. "He got away?"

"We'll call the FBI manhunt team. They may be able to trap Dean when he attempts to rescue Castiel." Hotchner is all business, and for a moment JJ envies his detachment.

She nods. "Right. We're not supposed to be involved." She laughs, though it's not happy. "Not supposed to be."

Hotchner gives her a gentle expression as Castiel is placed in the back of the patrol car. Castiel doesn't look their way, not that it would have been easy with the officer guiding his head. JJ can't help that her attention keeps wandering to him. It's unnerving to see him like this, in this context. Mentally she's been here for over a year, but emotionally she apparently still has to adapt.

"I have a feeling they ended our case for us," JJ says as the patrol car drives away.

"At what cost?"

"A high one," JJ says, thinking that even if Dean and Castiel only killed their unsubs, the loss of Castiel is high enough.

* * *

"This feels weird," Rossi confesses. He was the only one not to go on the raid ("I'm too old, running around with guns is a young man's game." Hotchner gave him a funny look when he said that). "I thought they'd stay away from our cases, out of self preservation if nothing else."

"And you didn't even see them," Reid replies. "Castiel's hair was six centimeters longer than average."

JJ blinks at Reid. So does Penelope through the conference room's screen.

Rossi bursts out laughing. "That's what you noticed?"

"I remember everything! And that was different."

"More different than the body they were standing over?" Rossi asks.

Reid shrugs. "We see a lot of bodies in this job."

Some of the amusement in the room fades, though not all of it. JJ can see Hotchner eyeing everyone in his quiet, nondescript way. Hotchner has been careful to notice the team's emotional state when it comes to Castiel – more so than other cases. JJ knows it's needed, and that it comes from a place of caring, so she doesn't mind that focused attention. The fractures JJ saw when Castiel became a murderer have mostly healed over with time, as they've all accepted one truth of the matter: that Castiel is no longer the person they once knew, and that it's okay to grieve the death of their friend.

JJ still wishes they had the whole truth.

Their profile on Castiel is as complete as they could make it, but how Castiel changed from an FBI agent, an adult man with a stable personality, to someone that Dean Winchester could manipulate so effectively that Castiel even maintained normal behavior – that he maintains some of that normal behavior now is a mystery. JJ can't help but remember that Castiel was the one to give the code word; he gave the order, and _Dean_ obeyed.

 _"So what happens now?_ " Penelope asks. _"I mean, does he – like, go to prison now?"_

"Eventually," Hotchner replies. "But that's a good question, Garcia. Dean Winchester is still loose, and he will try to rescue his partner. The FBI team assigned to Dean and Castiel's case is on their way, and they've already begun coordinating with local law enforcement to bait a trap."

"Will they want our help?" Morgan asks.

Hotchner pauses. "Possibly in profiling."

"So what do we know?" JJ asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Penelope says, _"If we're getting into bad guys' heads – I mean, Castiel – wait. You know what I mean. Then I think I prefer my head to be in my head."_

"Take a break, Penelope," Morgan advises. "Treat yourself to a mocha for me, okay?"

 _"Absolutely, sweetheart. I'll send you the bill."_ Penelope says, and the screen goes black.

Hotchner taps a folder in front of him. "In terms of our suspects, both were killed with a single bullet to the heart. Autopsies are being performed. The house yielded blood matching blood types to our victims; DNA analysis will take more time. Based on that, though, I think we found our killers. No hearts were discovered, but blood was found in the fridge. It's possible they were eating the hearts."

"No sign of any others involved?" Rossi asks.

Hotchner shakes his head. "That said, I wanted to check base with everyone. It's possible we will be asked to consult on Dean and Castiel, since we're here. Is anyone uncomfortable with that and would like to take a step back?"

"I'm ready," JJ says.

Rossi nods in agreement and so does Reid.

Hotchner looks at Morgan. "And you?"

Morgan sighs. "I'm fine." He shakes his head, but not in denial. "I hate this, but I'll get through it. I've got your back."

Hotchner nods, accepting that without comment. "I've gotten a report on what we know so far when it comes to Castiel and Dean. Dean's car hasn't been found. They apparently stole a car and used that to get to Jordan Smithwood's house. It was probably an extra layer of protection that Castiel insisted upon, since they must have known we were here. Castiel's gun has been fired at least once, but no matches have been made yet – the techs are still working on that. Local PD has put out an APB on Dean's car. Penelope is running aliases that have cultural references, based on Reid's suggestions, but no hits for any hotels or motels."

Rossi grabs a pen and starts fiddling with it. "I think it would probably be a good idea to go through what we know again. See if there's anything we can do. I know this appears to be over –"

Morgan shakes his head. "It's not over. Dean hasn't been captured."

"And Dean has proved himself capable of escaping a high security prison," JJ says.

"Then let's see if there's anything we've missed," Hotchner concludes. "If we are asked to consult on Castiel, I want us to be ready."

The entire team goes through Castiel's profile, again. They have no significant new information since they last assembled it, but that doesn't really matter. The key is familiarity, understanding, and new insight. For the last, they go to the little bit of new info they have: Dean and Castiel's involvement in this case.

"From the start, we thought the unsubs were not acting like the theatrical take on werewolves," Rossi points out. "The timeline doesn't match up. But given that the suspects probably were eating the hearts, that's probably what Dean and Castiel think they are."

"From the softness of the metal, the forensic techs think that it is possible that the bullets in Castiel's gun are silver. Tests haven't been done, so they can't confirm that, but they are certain that the bullets were handmade," Reid says, pointing out the detail that Hotchner forgot.

"It wouldn't be the first time details didn't match mythology, but Dean Winchester was convinced of supernatural elements anyway," JJ says with a shrug. "Though how Castiel could overlook that, I'm not sure."

"Castiel's been willing to overlook a great deal to stay with Dean," Hotchner replies.

JJ grimaces. "True."

"Their code word was interesting," Reid says. "'Red.' Previously, Sam and Dean Winchester always used references to classic rock and film."

"Red has the benefit of being short," Morgan says. "Perhaps Castiel insisted on it for that reason. It's more practical."

"And Castiel is not entirely submissive," Rossi agrees. "We're dealing with a partnership here that is more equal than most."

"Their body language when we burst through was trusting. Side by side. Dean wasn't keeping Castiel in view, which indicates he didn't need to in order to have Castiel's cooperation," JJ says. "We also don't know which one of them killed our unsubs yet, though it's likely Castiel did kill at least one, given that his gun was fired."

Hotchner nods. "Castiel was also the one to give the code word, and Dean responded immediately. Without hesitation. That's trust."

Rossi looks thoughtful. "We profiled it, but I think we have some confirmation of that now. Castiel won't break through interrogation or separation."

"No," JJ says slowly. "The only reason to talk to us is because he wants to, not because he feels cornered."

"Strategically, the interrogator should start from that. He might want to explain himself to us, if he still values our opinions," Reid says. "And we could use all the information we can get. Not just for trial, but to better our understanding so we can capture Dean as well."

Hotchner interjects. "SSA Dudell is preparing a bait operation, where officers will let slip when Castiel is being transferred. That's the mostly likely point of attempted rescue. If Dean tries for it, he'll be met with overwhelming force."

"Good," JJ says. "But if all of that doesn't work, how would an interrogator approach Castiel?"

After a moment, Reid answers. "His psychological weak point is his belief in Dean. It must be immense, for Castiel to have given himself over to Dean's delusions and psychosis."

"Poking holes in that will be difficult," Morgan warns.

Hotchner dips his head in acknowledgement of that fact. "Do we have any other suggestions?"

It takes a minute, but they all eventually say no. They don't disperse after that, though. Instead they leave the PD building and go get lunch. They don't mention the case. They talk about their kids, their spouses, and their hobbies. JJ's boys are getting bigger and more rambunctious, and they're talking about getting them involved in sports and outdoor programs. Morgan's son is toddling and the intense task of baby proofing the house is never ending. Hotchner's son is the star player of his soccer team. Rossi talks about his daughter's career in journalism. Reid mentions the last fifteen books he read, and quotes the best parts until they politely ask him to stop.

Very deliberately, they de-stress.

And after that, they go to their hotel to sleep for the night.

JJ is so tired she only stays up fifteen minutes wondering what Castiel is thinking.

* * *

Sleep and coffee in the morning make JJ feel like a new human being.

Morgan seems to feel the same way. Yesterday he'd looked bone tired – particularly after the incident with Castiel – but now his shoulders are relaxed and his head held high. They meet over the rather nice continental breakfast the hotel offers, JJ stirring sugar into her coffee.

"Coffee's not bad," Morgan notes.

"Starbuck's is better." JJ looks up. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Feels good that things are happening. That things are getting resolved."

JJ nods. "I know what you mean. I just wish I knew why – why Castiel has done all this. I know what we profiled, but it doesn't feel like enough. It doesn't feel complete."

Morgan shrugs lightly. "It isn't. But I don't know you'll ever get the answers you're looking for. Or if you really want them."

JJ looks away for a moment. "I want the truth."

Arriving at the station, JJ finds it full of the FBI manhunt team. While the BAU's work is ending, theirs is just beginning. Dean Winchester is dangerous.

When SSA Dudell, an older black man with gray in his hair and steel in his eyes, walks into the conference room the BAU used during the case and demands one of them interview Castiel – he's refusing to speak to his agents – JJ is there, helping pack their equipment.

And when she volunteers, "I'll do it," she's thinking of finding the truth.

* * *

Interrogating a suspect is no simple matter. Especially this one.

Normally, the team comes together before an interrogation, re-examines the profile, and determines how the profile can be used to gain answers from the suspect. Interviewing witnesses is easier, and usually revolves around making sure the witness or victim is comfortable and feels safe. An interrogation is about finding a psychological weak point and exploiting it. The BAU did that and Hotchner wrote down the team's recommendations. JJ knows them as well as anyone else.

Executing those recommendations is another matter.

"You can't just walk in there blind," Rossi reminds her.

"We should have a strategy, a new one, given that now the interrogator has a personal relationship with Castiel," Reid says. "You might be the one asking him the questions, but you won't be alone, JJ."

"Your personal connection will be key," Hotchner says.

Reid sits back. "I don't believe Castiel will tell us anything of value regardless."

JJ takes that in. "But he might want to explain himself. He still sees himself as doing what's right, wouldn't he want us to see it the same way?"

Reid pauses to think about that. "Possibly."

"Belief in Dean is still his psychological weak point," Hotchner says. "JJ will just have to approach the topic differently."

JJ nods. "I agree."

JJ comes equipped with the best weapon she could have: information.

She knows Castiel's already signed a waiver to talk to the FBI. He must want to explain himself. To justify to those that hunted him why his reasoning was correct and his choices moral. Psychologically, the need to explain oneself is usually tied to the attempt to rationalize actions by convincing others they were acceptable. If Castiel can get another person to justify it, it becomes far easier to do that himself. The fact that he's willing to try says two things: he's fairly certain of himself, though doubt must remain for the need to explain to exist, and he wants something of the personal connection that they all once had with him. Perhaps there's a need for confession as well, for whatever parts he does hold himself accountable for. That's good. JJ can use all of that.

She wants more than the FBI manhunt team wants; she wants the truth, so they can finally and completely move on.

In a way, it will be difficult. Profilers are not 'trained.' JJ learned on the job, just like all profilers do. Unlike most, she learned from active profilers, whereas most profilers first gain experience in their own field of expertise – Morgan in understanding not just bombs, but those who make them, for instance. Castiel was the same way. He worked in organized crime in the FBI for years before he transferred permanently to the BAU. Castiel is smart, and moreover, he's clever. He has his psychological needs like anyone else, but he's far more aware of his, especially in this context. His justifications will be complex and thought out.

His belief in Dean firm.

JJ knows what she needs to do. Accomplishing it? Now, faced with it, she's nervous. Nerves are a part of life with such a stressful, important job, and JJ is trained and experienced in putting that aside. But even profilers are not emotionless robots.

Still, she thinks she's the best for the job, besides Hotchner – because she wants this. Morgan, she knows, would find it difficult to peel back the layers and pry at the edges hard enough. Reid, perhaps. Rossi, the same.

JJ can remind herself that this isn't about her, not solely. It's about all of them. And with her team in mind, she's ready.

* * *

Castiel has been in police custody for twenty four hours by the time JJ interviews him.

She takes her seat first. The interview is being recorded, but JJ isn't taking any notes and doesn't have a binder in front of her. Papers and binders, flipped over or closed, can be used as intimidating tactic during an interrogation. JJ doesn't see the point in this case. For one, Castiel knows the technique, and for another, he's already fled from a murder and joined forces with a serial killer. She doesn't think she's going to get resistance against those facts. In fact, she expects Castiel to confess to them easily. The resistance will come only in his belief in Dean's delusions.

Or so she expects.

She looks up when the door opens. Castiel is dressed in a jail jumpsuit, which in this case happens to be gray. It makes his skin look paler than it probably is. He's got dark circles under his eyes, and there's a bruise and scrape on his cheekbone that she didn't see yesterday. JJ wasn't close enough to Castiel to see that kind of detail, though. She kept away.

Castiel offers her that same, sad smile as he's brought in. The ankle cuffs are removed, and his wrist cuffs are placed on a ring on the table, instead of being kept at his waist. He complies with the guard's instructions calmly and without much thought. He's focused on her.

"Hello, JJ." Soft, simple.

JJ smiles at him, and it's not fake. "Where'd you get the bruise?"

Castiel shrugs. "Not Dean."

Interesting thing to jump to. Normally that would imply that's probably where he got it, but in this case he's likely profiling her. Analyzing her. No doubt he's made his own version of the BAU's profile, in order to more effectively evade pursuit. "Dean doesn't hit you? He used to."

"No. He doesn't." And Castiel waits.

JJ knows what she needs to do here. The questions to ask. But all she can do, right now, is stare at him. The bruise on his cheek. The picture of the gold band in his things, confiscated on arrest. The quiet regard he's giving her. She takes a deep breath. "Will you tell me the truth?"

"Of course. That's what you need."

JJ blinks twice, a tell she tries to suppress, but Castiel always was a perceptive one. He'd have to be, to be a permanent member of the BAU. But if their profile of him is correct, his ability to care for the mental state of anyone besides Dean should be limited. "Does that matter to you?"

"All of you will always matter to me."

Truth or lie? "So you will tell me only the truth?"

"Yes." Unequivocal.

JJ decides to leave that there. "You have to admit you've left us in quite a state of confusion."

Castiel nods. "I did kill Weston Bower, but I did it only to save Agent Stein's life. With no foreknowledge on his part or anyone else's, of course."

"How did you save his life?"

Castiel takes a moment to reply. "I know you'll think I'm crazy, but Bower was using a spell to drain Agent Stein's life force. The only way I could stop it was to kill him."

JJ considers that. She doesn't want to say a word that isn't carefully thought through. Castiel's confessed to the murder. She should probably move on. "When did you come to believe in supernatural capabilities like spells?"

"Asking about Dean at last?"

"If you will."

"Forty days into being imprisoned, Dean put a magical cuff on me, that would not let me pass boundaries he chose." Castiel smiles almost bashfully and admits, "I thought he was nuts. A magical cuff? So I knocked him out and ran for it. Only to fall flat on my face, literally. I couldn't figure out what was tripping me up. How was the cuff working? Magnets?" Castiel shrugs. "That was the beginning, though it took me far longer to believe everything Dean told me about the true nature of the world."

JJ's throat tightens. "And the whole time – the whole time, you believed that? While you were with us?"

"Yes. Because it was the truth, as is what I'm telling you now."

"Castiel. Why didn't you ask for help? You have to know –"

Castiel leans in. "I asked for help with what I needed. I didn't need you to pop my delusions because I wasn't and am not delusional."

"Yes, you are! Spells, Castiel? And what about Dean? Do you believe all his stories about how he saved people –"

"JJ," Castiel says softly.

Now is not the time to get emotional or personally involved, regardless of the fact that that same emotional connection is why she volunteered. "Do you believe?"

"I believe what I have seen with my own eyes, not because he told me to."

"So you've seen supernatural creatures yourself?" JJ asks.

"Yes, on multiple occasions." Castiel tilts his head. "I can practically see you ticking off 'psychosis.'"

"Can you blame me?" JJ asks dryly.

Slight smile. "No."

JJ takes a moment to observe Castiel's affect. Unlike what she would expect to see, he's sensitive to her emotional state, enough to want to reassure her, and capable of predicting her assumptions. She would expect nothing less from Agent Castiel Novak, but the Castiel on the run with a psychotic serial killer? Less so. Her expectation would be to see Castiel stressed, both from his relationship with Dean, who is dangerously violent (though not typically to his partners, true enough) and therefore unpredictable. People who have to cope with random behavior are often high strung, easily stressed even if not verbally so, and constantly looking for a shift in tone, purely as a survival skill. Even as Castiel was profiled as being less submissive, JJ would expect to see some of that, and potentially some aggression of his own, practiced to counter Dean's.

But Castiel's affect is calm, even, and confident. He has no doubts about his life, while simultaneously is capable of understanding the doubts of others.

"I'd like to go through this chronologically, if you don't mind."

Castiel spreads his hands as much as he is able, with them cuffed. A gesture of welcome.

"So Dean used a magical cuff on you?"

"A spelled one. Yes. He then told me the story of his history – him and Sam, that is, explaining the crimes the BAU wanted him for from his perspective, and in the context of the supernatural being real."

"Did you believe everything he told you?" Surely not. At least not then.

"I was highly skeptical, but I could no longer completely deny the possibility. Seeing Anna was very convincing."

JJ frowns. "Who is Anna?"

"Anna is the woman – well, not woman – who Dean was referring to when he said 'don't ask her,' as well as the person who rescued him from prison. She is an angel. The first time I met her, she healed my injuries instantaneously."

JJ raises her eyebrows. High. "How does Dean know an angel?"

"She's resurrected him a few times. It's a long story."

"I bet," JJ says, rather unprofessionally.

"I can tell you that story," Castiel offers, unfazed.

"I'd like that, later," JJ says, though she realizes she knows most of it from Dean's psychologist. "What else convinced you?"

Castiel looks upward, clearly going through his memory. Not the body language of someone lying. "I used a spell to temporarily disable the cuff. My second escape attempt. And months later, a tulpa attacked us in the bunker. Followed Dean home, actually."

Home. Interesting word usage. "Do you live with Dean?"

Castiel shakes his head firmly. "I don't live in the bunker. I refuse to go back there."

That implies Castiel still views his kidnapping as a crime, even if the rest of Dean's actions he considers necessary or correct. He also didn't actually answer her question, so she'll take that as a yes. "And Dean agreed to that?"

"He did, yes."

"So this whole time … you believed in Dean?"

Castiel pauses. "Not in Dean, not exactly. In the world he showed me, yes."

If Castiel's weak point doesn't hinge on Dean, but on the belief in the supernatural, then their relationship isn't what they profiled. But it supports the idea that Dean and Castiel are equals, if that's the case. "But you helped Dean escape. Anna, you called her."

Castiel meets JJ's eyes. "Yes. I needed his help, so I told her to get him out."

"Help for what?"

"The vampire case," Castiel says. "I wouldn't tell you, but it's not like you arrested anyone important anyway. Hunters killed those responsible. The vampires responsible, that is."

"So you were working with Dean that far back?" JJ asks, unable to hide how appalled she is.

Castiel just nods.

"Dean raped you."

"Yes." Castiel pauses. "He did. He did that, but that's not – " Castiel stops for a moment. He smiles, very gently, but not directed at her. "That was something he did, but that's not who he is. Dean has done evil things, but he's not evil. And I love who he is."

"You don't think we know each other by our fruit? By our actions?"

"I do. Yes. And Dean's – Dean's was to turn himself in."

"Dean has murdered more than eighty people _that we know of_. He kidnapped you, held you prisoner for eighteen months, and raped you. He confessed to thirty-three different rapes of you. How can you say that's not who he is?"

Castiel doesn't answer JJ's anger with any of his own. "Consider reality. My reality," he amends. "From my point of view. Dean has done horrible things, yes, but if you consider that he's also been killing monsters since he was literally a child, then he has also saved countless lives. And because he's been doing this since he was a child, he's – he's damaged. Emotionally and psychologically, Dean has scars, far worse than any physical ones. I wouldn't call it impaired judgment, but if we can offer sympathy – even if no less prison time – for someone horrifically abused who then lashes out against others, why can't I offer that for Dean? If I choose to? Why can't I forgive him, when I was the one wronged?"

JJ resists the urge to say 'bullshit.' There are things in this world that you can't come back from, and rape is one of them. As is the murder of innocents. It seems that Castiel has forgotten both of those. "We have a video of you kissing in a gas station. And your … wedding ring."

Castiel blinks, for the first time surprised. "Ah. Well, we did reinitiate our relationship. Or rather, I did. Dean was very resistant to the idea. He didn't want to hurt me."

Dr. Merris said Dean wanted to 'get better' for Castiel's sake, in heaven. Dean wanted a healthy relationship. Dean loved Castiel. And she believed that in some way, Castiel loved him in return. JJ considers not Castiel's version of reality, but the reality she knows: Castiel never stopped loving Dean, even if manipulation was the root cause. He never recovered from Stockholm Syndrome, and he certainly never recovered from his belief in Dean's delusions, going so far as to convince himself he sees what Dean sees – to stay with the man he believes he loves. That he does love, JJ supposes, in the most twisted and unhealthy of ways. Enough to sacrifice pieces of himself, and it would appear not out of fear. This time.

The first time, Castiel sacrificed pieces of himself for survival. Perhaps he never got those pieces back.

Dean's psychologist also said that Castiel wouldn't be a typical serial killing partner. And the BAU profiled Castiel's submissiveness would be limited, and an ineffective tool.

JJ is honestly curious. Afraid of the answer, but wanting to know Castiel's words, even if she can't bring herself to believe them. "He doesn't hurt you?"

"No. He's so, so careful, JJ. I don't know if this is what you want to hear, but we're happy."

It's crushing in that all their worst fears are confirmed. Castiel is firmly in Dean's camp, settled in Dean's version of reality. Castiel has completely, and likely irrevocably, lost his way. And yet he's happy, and JJ wonders if that is some small blessing for a broken man.

She has the truth she wanted.

The rest of this is just for the record. "Did you have contact with Dean before he broke out of prison?"

"No. He had nothing to do with any cases before that point, and only the vampires after that," Castiel says. He must know that all his cases are under review, and any information of how badly he compromised those cases is helpful.

"When did your relationship with him start?"

"Three or four months after his escape, I suppose? It was a gradual process."

"You saw him a lot," JJ observes.

"As much as I felt I safely could," Castiel agrees. "For closure, in the beginning. And then I remembered all the good parts of Dean. Or I finally allowed myself to. And since he'd done so much to change himself … I saw a way forward, for both of us." Castiel looks upward a moment. "It was a lot messier than that, of course."

Literally messy? That's what JJ wonders. How many bodies. "Did you kill anyone together?"

"No. We're not serial killers."

"You kill people," JJ insists.

"We kill monsters," Castiel corrects. "Dean has killed humans in the process, but not innocent ones."

"For instance?"

"Witches, demon summoners, that kind of thing. He has killed people possessed by demons, it's far easier than exorcising them with the right weapon – if in combat – but those were unavoidable deaths."

How easily Castiel puts aside the deaths of innocents. JJ looks down at her hands, wishing she had notes so she could pretend to be busy while she regains her composure.

"I'm sorry."

JJ looks up. "For what?"

"I know this is hard. It's not as hard as it would have to be, if you believed the truth, but I know why you don't."

 _Get the information, JJ_. "And the murders? Jordan Smithwood and his girlfriend, Adenna Jackson?"

"They were werewolves. We killed them with silver bullets." Castiel pauses. "Silver with a lead core. Silver's a pretty soft metal for bullets."

"Castiel, that doesn't even make sense," she says, unable to help herself. "They weren't killing people on the full moon."

But Castiel just nods. "Countermeasure. Not against you, the police, but against hunters like Dean and me. They were locking themselves up during the full moon, hunting in the few days surrounding it so they could fulfill the urge to eat human hearts during the same general time period. We're not sure why they sped up. Maybe to stock up for when they left the area?" Castiel shrugs. "Fortunately we had time."

That's when it hits JJ: _Castiel knew the BAU was coming to this case._ Before they ever arrived. "It was you." Disbelief colors her words, but it's rapidly turning into certainty.

"I'm sorry?"

"You withdrew the Ventura PD's requests for help."

Castiel tilts his head, squinting as if puzzled. But he isn't.

JJ is on to him. "No. You gave the first request, thereby legitimizing all the requests and take backs that came after. The blue truck – was that you, too? Throwing us off so you could get to them first and kill them?"

Castiel eyes her for a long moment. Denials do not spill from his lips. "Our other theory was that they were making a pack. The three deaths that were caused by slashing – those may have been attempted infection by bite. If that was the case, we had to handle it ourselves. Even if you caught just the two we knew of, there could have been more – we couldn't take that risk."

They profiled it. _He will be able to lead law enforcement astray when he desires to do so, forensically and psychologically._ They didn't include themselves in that, but they should have. "So you admit it."

"I admit to messing with your paperwork."

"And to killing two people."

"Not people, and not innocent," Castiel replies.

"That doesn't justify murder."

Castiel looks down. "I feel guilty about Bower. Dean thinks it's … silly. But JJ, I didn't do any of this lightly."

"And Cynthia Dernwood? What did she do to deserve being horrifically murdered?" JJ demands.

"Cynthia Dernwood died six months before we arrived."

JJ leans back, trying to regain her calm. This is more unnerving than she thought it would be. "Can you explain?"

"Of course. The monster that killed Cynthia Dernwood was a cyntis. Not something I had ever heard of in mythology, mind you. It took a lot of research to figure out what it was. We were attracted to the robbery deaths first. A chunk of hair and a nail – well, those are common spell ingredients, so at first we thought she was a witch. But when we interviewed her neighbors, there was a personality change. We wanted to be sure we knew what we were dealing with, so we researched and waited until we got a match: a cyntis is a hybrid creature of two other monsters. They typically drain life force through a ritual because the methods of feeding are often mixed because of parentage, so it doesn't take either parents' method. But in order to do so it needs a part of the person's body. The nail and hair were removed before death, and then she killed them. It used Cynthia Dernwood as a cover, against hunters. Took her form – one of its parents was a shape shifter – and even took care of her son, in order to remain undetected."

It. It. Over and over, Castiel couldn't call her human. "That doesn't explain how you found her."

"We followed it back from a crime scene. Took us a while to piece the rest of it together."

"Right after the act of murder?" JJ asks, not sure she's believing this part.

"Yes. Our appearance threw the police off, I think, and it wasn't matched with the other murders. 1166 Oak Street, Vaxville. I was the one to find the pattern. A new city every month, deep in the suburbs, close to a highway, and each house was marked with blood a week before. The blood was wiped away, but I used infrared with a camera and found it." Castiel pauses in his recitation and shrugs. "Not sure why that part was necessary. But we started searching neighborhoods and found it."

JJ nods slowly. "I see. And based on that, you left her son without a mother?"

"Cynthia Dernwood died far before we ever found the case," Castiel insists. "What we killed – that wasn't human. Before it died, it screamed like a banshee. An inhuman scream, I mean. And part of its skin melted."

JJ represses her shudder out of years of practice. "I see."

Castiel sighs. "No, you don't. You think I'm crazy."

"Think about how you sound, Castiel. Five years ago, you would have thought you were crazy," JJ says gently.

"People who suffer from psychosis," Castiel begins slowly, "are inconsistent. Dean's always been consistent in his rationale. And so have I."

"And so I should be convinced?"

Castiel's mouth twitches, then smoothes out. "No. I wouldn't have been in your place. But in case you ever are in my place, I wanted to tell you the truth."

JJ doesn't say anything. Then, "What about other cases since you've been gone? What else has convinced you?"

"And provide you with geographical data? No, I don't think so."

"So there's nothing you'd like to confess to while we're here?"

Castiel smiles. "Not specifically, no."

There's a knock at the door, then it cracks open. Castiel can't see it from this angle, but Hotchner is there. That's all he needs to do – JJ smiles at Castiel, because it can't hurt, and says, "It was good to talk to you, Castiel."

The look Castiel gives her suggests he knows she's lying.

Then she's out the door.

* * *

Hotchner doesn't commonly interrupt an interrogation. One of the only reasons he will do so is because there is new information and the interrogator needs to know it to properly do their job. Only twice in thirteen years has he interrupted an interrogation by a member of his team because he wanted to take over.

"What is it?" JJ asks when the door closes.

"I want to talk to him," Hotchner says. "I have questions, based on what I heard."

JJ nods slowly. "Are you sure you don't want me to ask those questions? I have a rapport with him."

"I'm sure. You did a good job, JJ. We got the information that the FBI and prosecutors needed."

Something seems to settle in JJ. Relax. Hotchner can imagine how difficult that interview was for her – as it would have been for any of them, hearing Castiel confess to so many horrific crimes, some of which occurred on their watch. To know that Castiel was that far gone while appearing so normal to his friends is a shock.

"Take a break," Hotchner says. "Why don't you call your family?"

"I will," JJ says. "You, too, when this is all over."

Hotchner nods at her, and then knocks on the door, so Castiel knows he's coming. Then he enters. It's the first time Hotchner has seen Castiel in person since his capture. JJ asked about the bruise, and Hotchner already confirmed it was not given to him in jail, so that's not a surprise. What's more surprising is how Castiel reacts to Hotchner's presence.

He straightens, almost like Hotchner is still his superior. And then he gives Hotchner a little nod. "Hotch," Castiel says simply. "Do you mind me calling you that?"

Hotchner shakes his head and takes JJ's former seat. "I have a question for you. Perhaps more than one."

"Then ask."

"If all of what you have told us is objectively true and real, why not come to me? Why not come to any one of us, and demonstrate it?"

Castiel sighs. "Partly selfish survival and partly the law of unintended consequences." Castiel doesn't say anything further for a long moment, and Hotchner recognizes the look on his face as Castiel making a decision. Castiel used to do just that when he'd recommend something bold.

Hotchner waits, and Castiel does not disappoint.

"If I had attempted to do so while in the BAU, my failure would have meant the end of my career and a possible psych eval, ending in possible temporary hospitalization. Magic is – it works. But not always incredibly visibly, as it did with the cuff Dean used on me, and I'm no warlock. The only true magical spell I've ever used, took me over a dozen tries to succeed. Similarly, a great deal of supernatural events can be rationalized away, as you did with the vampire case. You easily assumed that over a hundred people had extensive, identical surgery to their teeth, that their strength was a result of PCP or some similar drug, and that being shot and not stopping meant they were wearing body armor. In this day and age, it's often easy to come up with a non-supernatural explanation."

"The simplest explanation is usually the correct one."

"I'd say 'vampire' is simpler than all of what I just named."

Hotchner has to give him that one. "Simpler, but we might as well assume the sun circles the earth based on the cycle of a day, ignoring evidence for everything else."

"Point," Castiel says wryly.

"Law of unintended consequences?" Hotchner asks.

"I did my best to keep what I knew separate from my job. But you and Morgan were suspicious nonetheless. And I eventually lost my place at the BAU – which I don't blame you for, by the way. I attacked you to save myself, and I'm sorry for that. And then when Weston Bower tried to kill Roger Stein …" Castiel pauses. "Let's say I convinced one of you, even two of you. Those people would be completely alone, double checking everything for supernatural elements, and having the rest of the team – highly skilled at analyzing behavior – watch them. How long until they are under suspicion with the rest of the team?"

Hotchner opens his mouth.

"And if you all knew, if I convinced all of you, then you'd have the danger of the rest of the FBI looking at you, and potentially altering reports."

"And lying, like you?"

Castiel shrugs. "Yes."

"Then why tell me this now?"

Castiel leans in. "For one thing, if I gave you this warning by some other means, you'd report it anyway."

True.

"I had a lot to lose. That isn't the case now, and you're unprotected from the supernatural. I'm telling you this because I know how your mind works, and you don't have Reid's memory, Hotch, but you remember everything that matters. And if one day you look at what I've said and what's before your own eyes and realize the truth, I want you to know that I'm here for you. And if you ever find that truth, you'll know how to find me."

It's so earnest that it engenders sadness instead of pity. "You want so desperately to save me, but you're the one who needs to be saved."

"Just – remember. Please."

At last, Hotchner nods. "Goodbye, Castiel."

* * *

The details of Castiel's transfer are kept secret, though his destination isn't in order to bait Dean: the airport, to be extradited to Michigan. California wasn't keen on the idea, but Michigan won the day, though it took a week of legal battles, something that angered SSA Dudell because it gave Dean Winchester more time to plan his rescue.

JJ wishes she and the others were kept in the loop – she feels like the BAU could help hone down when Dean would attempt to rescue his partner – but only Hotchner is told anything of substance. Agent Dudell is determined not to lose this opportunity to catch Dean Winchester, the man they've been hunting off and on for ten years. If they fail now, JJ knows, then they will have to dog Castiel's heels during his trial, and that will be difficult, time consuming, and expensive.

Not to mention the potential of Dean's success. That would be a huge embarrassment for Dudell and the FBI.

Over thirty police officers are recruited to be the 'overwhelming force' recommended by the BAU. Since Hotchner isn't leaving until Dudell makes his first bait/capture attempt, the rest of the team is staying as well. They decide to remain in the PD building and listen in using equipment Ventura PD kindly provides, in case they can help somehow.

JJ and Morgan sit in the conference room they used during the case, though it's been completely emptied. Now it's just a meeting place, and somewhere for them to have some coffee in silence. JJ gulps down coffee, making a face when she realizes it doesn't have enough sugar.

Morgan slides a packet of sugar on the table in her direction.

JJ smiles at him. "You know me too well."

"I was puzzled to see you taking coffee with your sugar."

In response, JJ flicks the empty packet at him.

Reid pops his head in. "They've just started the transfer."

Morgan and JJ look at each other, and then leave for the control room. This station has a technical room with security cameras for the area, as well as the ability to show other feeds. The station captain and others use it routinely for things like security details for politicians and political events, as well as local events. In this case most of their feeds are just audio. Morgan manages to find a comfortable seat, but gives it up to JJ when she can't do the same.

Reid stands, staring at the monitors. He says, "I can't imagine Dean not trying to rescue Castiel. This is his best opportunity, and he must know that."

"He does," Morgan says. "He's too smart not to."

"I do wonder how much he'll prepare for us," JJ says, "considering he thinks we're too stupid to see the world as he does."

Morgan raises an eyebrow. "I wouldn't bet on that."

At first, everything appears normal. The officers being used to transfer Castiel to the airport are calm and experienced, talking lingo as they put Castiel into a guard van, presumably escorted by police cars, and trailed by officers in plain clothes. " _10-59 complete, everything looks good. 10-14, we're taking off."_

Then all the windows rattle. "What was that?" Reid demands.

"Bomb," Morgan answers grimly, and is out the door, shouting, "Get your gear!"

And a second later, over the secured radio, _"10-24! Suspect with a gun!" and "We've got smoke bombs! Secure the prisoner and take cover!"_ And then more garbled messages, numerous officers talking over each other. _"What was that?" "Get civilians away!" "He attacked the station?"_

JJ grabs her bullet proof vest with FBI lettering, hearing, _"The van! Check the van!"_ from the radio, takes an earpiece, and then she's following Morgan and a stream of officers at the station out the front. Reid and Rossi are behind her; Hotchner, she knows, is with Agent Dudell.

The first thing she sees is a wrecked, burning car on the street opposite the station. The van is right next to it, surrounded by two squad cars and officers using said cars as cover. The van appears to still be secure.

Morgan isn't going for it, though – he's checking other cars on the street, which makes sense since he's the team's bomb expert. Police officers are lining up in a square around the van like Roman soldiers ready to beat back the invaders, all for one man.

Then a deep fog – smoke, it must be smoke to be so sudden – enters a cloudy Ventura day, and JJ loses all visibility. She can't see more than five feet in front of her. She lowers her gun, worried about hitting an officer, and continues forward. She hopes to find the squad cars and provide backup, but stops when she hears grunts of pain, and then a half strangled, " _10-10!_ " She can't tell the direction.

Fight in progress.

Dean is here.

"Winchester is here!" JJ shouts.

Hotchner's voice comes over the radio: " _Winchester is alone, start talking to each other – if you know someone is nearby and they aren't identifying themselves, arrest them."_

 _"Hold the van!"_ Agent Dudell orders. _"Don't leave for any reason, backup is literally a dozen feet away."_

Bang. Not gunfire, but another, smaller explosion. A flashbang. And another, and another.

JJ runs towards where she thinks the van is, shouting, "FBI, FBI," the whole way. She nearly flattens an officer, who first points his gun at her – she raises hers, identifies herself, "Agent Jareau!"

The officer lowers his gun, eyes scanning the area. As much as the fog/smoke allows.

"Do you still have the prisoner?" JJ demands.

The officer looks to his left. "Over there!"

 _"Area is being locked down,_ " Agent Dudell says. " _Streets, sidewalks, don't let anyone pass – not_ anyone – _without being frisked and questioned."_

JJ jogs to the van, and in a matter of a minute her range of visibility allows her to see two police officers laying on the ground. Dead flashbangs litter the area, and she sees more officers slowly getting to their feet, dazed. The back of the van is open. Castiel isn't there. "He's gone. Winchester got Novak." Then she checks the breathing and pulse of the two downed officers, scanning her surroundings all the while. She would run, she would look, but she can't see anything.

"10-31!" another officer shouts, coming onto the scene a second after JJ. The two officers are fine. One groans and begins shifting around.

JJ stares at the empty van, breathing hard.

Dean planned this. Dean planned this very, very carefully, and he chose to strike in a way that they would never have predicted – right outside the police station. A bomb to distract. Smoke and fog to cover his attack and exit with Castiel. Flashbangs to add to the confusion and further disorient anyone guarding Castiel. And he must have a hiding place now, a plan to get out from under the eyes of dozens of police officers.

JJ looks around, but her vision is no better. They need to be in pursuit, and quickly.

But it takes a whole five minutes before literal lines of police officers organize and begin walking through the area. The fog/smoke clears in half an hour, but there's no sign of Dean and Castiel. JJ and the others get debriefed on what the plan was, and where they expected Dean to strike – not here, of course, but on a highway with lots of room to run and a suburban area to hide in.

Dudell was well prepared. He had additional squad cars and officers at every other likely point of attack. But Dean, as usual, did the unpredictable. Dudell, she finds out, had officers line up in a square around the area as soon as the bomb exploded, but despite that, Dean and Castiel must have slipped through in the confusion, helped by the lack of visibility. However, Dudell's instant reaction to lock down the area helps – Hotchner, JJ and the rest of the BAU conclude Dean and Castiel didn't have the time to flee the area before that lockdown occurred. They must be still be in a few square blocks, hiding. Waiting.

Morgan tells her the bomb was designed to be loud, and set the car on fire, but it didn't contain shrapnel. Presumably Dean didn't want bystanders hurt.

The BAU helps the station coordinate the search, knocking on every door and questioning everyone in the locked down area, which leads to nothing. They expand the search, but that also gets them nowhere. They examine every detail of Dean's plan to rescue Castiel, from finding video footage of Dean planting the car (plus bomb), scoping out the area, and apparently making measurements of some kind. Motels are searched. There are checkpoints for cars for two weeks, searching for Dean's Impala.

But Dean and Castiel are never found.

* * *

Two months later, JJ's in Quantico.

There was a large shakeup when Agent Dudell's effort to capture Dean along with Castiel turned out to be such a dismal failure. Dudell was removed from his position. The BAU catches surprisingly little flack, at least as far as JJ can tell. Hotchner has always done his best to protect them from political infighting, so JJ can admit that it's possible threats were made and they're simply not aware. But Hotchner told them not to worry, and he's not a liar, so JJ doesn't think that's the case. The BAU's part in this is over, unless they randomly happen upon Castiel and Dean again.

She knows Hotchner meets with the new agent in charge of capturing Castiel and Dean. She also knows that they both now appear on the list of the most wanted criminals. Dean's kill size warrants it, Castiel's less so, but Castiel is an embarrassment along with being the most capable of screwing with the FBI. The deputy director wants Castiel's head on a platter.

As always, the case goes cold.

A few weeks later, JJ comes into work early. Her sons are both sick and have been keeping her up all night, and she looks like a walking disaster, but Will took over in the morning – he had the sniffles, and JJ wanted to make sure he recovered – and she figures that as long as they don't get a new case, she can leisurely do some paperwork and guilt anyone without young children into covering for her.

Morgan used to be good for that, but his son is three now.

She grabs a donut from a pink box and heads for her desk.

"Morning," Morgan calls.

JJ looks up, blinking. "Morning."

"You look like hell."

"Then I look how I feel."

"Sick kids? I know the look."

JJ collapses at her desk. "Yeah."

"The new agent in charge of Winchester and Novak want to meet with us."

"What for?" JJ asks. "There's nothing new to add to the profile."

"He thinks his predecessor missed something."

JJ shakes her head. "I wish it were that simple."

"We didn't miss anything," Morgan agrees. "There's things we don't know, but nothing we missed. It does make me wonder, though. What they're up to. What their life is like. If Castiel really is Dean's equal in this whole mess. Or is that just me?" Morgan sits at the edge of her desk.

JJ finishes off her donut before replying. "No. I wonder that, too. The happiness of partner serial killers is never something I've really questioned. By the psychological nature of it, it's parasitic and destructive. But Dr. Merris seemed so convinced they loved each other, or at least that Dean loved Castiel. I wonder – I wonder if Castiel really is happy, killing people or not."

"Castiel gave up a lot for Dean."

JJ shrugs. "Yeah. Including his sanity."

Morgan snorts.

"I mean, magic?" JJ persists.

"Maybe all those Wiccans casting love potions are on to something."

"You cast spells, you ingest potions," JJ says.

"Sounds like we have an expert."

JJ laughs, but it fades. "What do you think? Do you think they love each other?"

Morgan gives the answer the seriousness it deserves. "I don't know. In a way, I'm not sure I want to know. Because if they are? What does that say?" After a moment Morgan adds, "You know, they found the blue truck guy. I checked. He was a registered pedophile."

"So if Castiel wanted us going in guns blazing, he picked someone not innocent," JJ muses. "Dean's sense of morality always was odd. And spotty."

"Spotty. Yeah." Morgan gets up and steals a donut. "But what do you think? Do they love each other?"

It takes JJ a long minute to formulate her answer. Dean and Castiel are wrapped up in memory, pain, and determination. She no longer views them objectively, if she ever did, and she knows it. But she saw truth in Castiel's words to her. Not the truth she wanted, and not objectively real, but a truth all the same; true to Castiel, that is.

"I always picture love as a positive thing," JJ says at last. "I can't imagine it's real love when the ends of it are evil."

Morgan has nothing to say to that.

* * *

But JJ wonders. Castiel seemed so convinced. What was there, that it turned a stable FBI agent, a hunter, into one of the hunted?

One night before she goes to bed, JJ looks up online sources for witchcraft and the occult. Most are fanciful, and a fair bit write as if they expect no result from their spells. But then she comes along one, a simple text website, that says, _I offer this as a guide for understanding, not as a teaching text. Real spells with real results hurt real people. If you have been targeted …_

And JJ reads on.

* * *

It's a dark night, moonless, but Morgan isn't staying outside. He walks along a silent street, making random turns here and there to expose or lose anyone trailing him.

Castiel vetted their meeting place, an empty warehouse in a commercial district. Vetted it very thoroughly, because he knows just how much Morgan risks by meeting him in person. It was Morgan who insisted, though. It's been over two years since Castiel fled after the murder of Bower, and since Morgan has seen his friend. They've communicated off and on by email, but it's not the same, and in some ways Castiel has become more reticent than ever. It's not out of distrust. Morgan thinks that Castiel believes his new life is incompatible with holding onto to anything – and anyone – outside of it, excepting his brother.

That isn't true.

Morgan was pissed as hell when he found out about the murder of Weston Bower. Not, he realized with a small bit of horror, at the murder itself but because Castiel didn't ask him for help. Whether Morgan could have provided any is debatable. But he would have liked to have the chance, risks or no risks. Or even to make the argument against it. Maybe that's part of it, too. Castiel doesn't want to put Morgan in danger, and any communication carries some possibility of that.

Dean, surprisingly, always emails Morgan back. Including the first one Morgan sent after Castiel fled. _Castiel doesn't love you. He's confused caring with love, and it's because you fucked him up._

Dean's reply was two words: _I know._

Nothing changed.

Morgan ducks into an alleyway, goes through a door which he locks behind himself, and meanders through an empty building until he reaches the other side. Then, at last, he finds himself at the warehouse Castiel specified. It's smaller, somewhat broken down but Morgan still sees a lock hanging loose on the metal side door. He opens it without making a sound, and closes it the same. The empty space shows signs of homeless living here previously – cardboard houses and piles of clothes.

Castiel is there already, sitting on a broken down crate and looking up at the ceiling. He looks a little older to Morgan's eyes. No gray in his hair yet, though he detects a little in his stubble. Otherwise, he looks the same. Perhaps even healthier.

In a way, seeing Castiel like this now reminds Morgan of when he saw Castiel for the first time after his captivity. Breathing. Alive.

"Castiel."

His response to Morgan is immediate. He turns, smiles, and rises to his feet. "Hello, Morgan." He tilts his head. "Fatherhood suits you. You haven't aged a day."

"I feel about a decade older, so I'm not too sure about that."

Castiel laughs.

Then Morgan walks into Castiel's space and pulls him into a hug, which Castiel returns, holding on just as tight. Castiel's breath hitches. "It's good to see you," Morgan says quietly. He means it. For a long time now, Castiel has seemed like a shadow, or like someone who died – Morgan remembers him, but he doesn't know him. He pulls back. "How have you been?"

"Good. No, really," Castiel says to the look of skepticism on Morgan's face. "All things considered, I'm doing very well."

"All things considered?"

Castiel waves a hand. "Nothing to do with Dean. Just the different lifestyle."

Morgan eyes him. "Like being hunted and captured by the FBI?"

Castiel winces. "Yes, like that. I wasn't sure Dean could get me out." Castiel gestures for Morgan to take a seat, which he does. "Thanks for giving Dean all that info, by the way. Saved my ass."

"I made him promise not to allow anyone to get hurt. Seriously hurt," Morgan amends, because he knows a few guys got concussions, a few blown out ear drums, and bruises. The guilt over that had been immense, and he'd quietly checked on everyone injured during Castiel's escape. All of them recovered. "Dean said something about his angel not being around to get you?"

"Yes. She and her kin are leaving Earth alone for a few millennia." Castiel smiles. "I know it sounds bad, I can see the look on your face, but it's a good thing. Now that hell is closed off, and heaven has retreated, this world is ours. Humanity's."

"It still sounds weird to talk about things that way."

Castiel nods. "Your last case, it went well? Dean mentioned you asked about the fae. They're dangerous."

"Yeah," Morgan says. "As it turned out, I didn't have to do anything. The woman made a deal, and when the deal was completed, she died. No more people got hurt."

Castiel doesn't say anything for a long moment, now that their introductory chitchat has concluded. "Morgan, why did you insist I meet you in person?"

The answer to that is both simple and complex. At its basic level, Morgan worries about Castiel staying with Dean in a romantic relationship. All the history between them – kidnapping, rape, Stockholm Syndrome, trauma – is enough to make Morgan believe that Castiel's best path is to be on his own, or work with another hunter, or frankly do anything except be anywhere near Dean Winchester's orbit.

It's complex in that Morgan knows that isn't going to happen, and therefore what Morgan does in response is a delicate line to walk, and an important one. Their friendship only deepened after Morgan discovered that the supernatural was real.

"Because you're like a brother to me," Morgan says simply, and waits.

Castiel stops breathing for a moment, and his head drops. Then, very quietly, "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm fucking sure. What the hell is wrong with you?"

And like he expected, Castiel laughs. "Because I'm a murderer? Because I went back to Dean Winchester, of all people? I threw Hotch under the bus to save my career, and I –"

"You took every risk in my stead. You took all the risks, so I'd have my wife, child, and career safe." Morgan pauses. "I'm part of why you're here, in this situation. And I know why you did it."

Castiel breathes raggedly for a few moments. "Thank you, Morgan."

"I know you saw Balthazar. Well, the manhunt team is fairly certain. And Balthazar looks like he's doing better. Don't I get a turn?" he asks lightly.

Castiel tilts his head, smiling. "Okay."

"How are you doing? How are you really doing?"

There's a long moment Castiel doesn't answer, which tells Morgan that Castiel is taking the question seriously. "I'm good," he says at last.

"Are you?" Morgan presses. "You can't lie to my face."

Castiel doesn't look offended. "You saw JJ interview me. I didn't lie."

"I did, and yes, you told the truth to her. But you didn't tell her everything. She didn't know the right questions to ask."

"Interview, take two?"

"Castiel –"

"No, it's all right," Castiel says. "No one understands this, me, and I understand why you want to. For my sake, right? To see if there's anything you need to do, anything you can do?"

Morgan searches Castiel's face for any hesitation. Then he asks, "Did you ever really recover?"

Castiel meets Morgan's gaze. "If the vampire case hadn't come up, if things had settled down with the supernatural, I think I would have left Dean in prison permanently."

Morgan exhales. "I wish you had. Maybe we wouldn't be meeting in secret."

"Or I would be in prison for something else." Castiel shrugs. "'What if' isn't a useful exercise for me. I have what I have, and I accept that."

"So that's why you're with Dean?"

"No." Castiel's mouth twists, and then he chuckles. "I left him for four months and hunted on my own, because I wanted to be sure I was with him completely of my own free will. And I discovered that I don't need Dean to survive. But I do want him."

Perhaps that's the best Morgan can hope for. Because if Castiel speaks the truth, then if Dean ever does turn on Castiel – and Morgan believes it is possible that he hasn't, and actually has been respecting Castiel – then Castiel could walk away. "Tell me."

"Are you sure you want me to? If they ever find out we met, then you would have to make the decision to protect me or yourself, and I don't –"

"I'm not giving you up, Castiel. I'll lose my job before that happens." His freedom? His life? He never intends to be in that position.

Castiel seems to realize it. "As long as you let me take all the risks, then. I have a lot less to lose," he adds wryly.

It's logical, so Morgan nods.

Sitting in a warehouse, hiding from the world, Castiel starts at his second beginning: running from the FBI instead of towards them. He talks about making the decision to run, and how he had briefly flirted with the idea of allowing himself to be convicted, because he had committed a murder. Morgan knows from Dean that Weston Bower was a vampire, but Castiel went into the murder not knowing that for sure. He had made the decision to kill a human being, and that decision itself – even if the act was not human murder – was enough to cause guilt. Morgan understands.

Castiel talks about staying with Dean in a house owned by some old friends of Dean's, taking the time to recover and remember how to be happy.

That's how he phrases it: remembering how to be happy. Not getting over all that he lost, not accepting it, really, but remembering how to be. It makes Morgan think of how Castiel changed himself, cutting off pieces and adding others, to remain sane in Dean's prison. He can't help but think that Castiel is doing the same thing now, but Castiel insists that isn't true. It's not the same. Castiel has choices, if not all the choices he could want; he could leave. He did leave, so he could be certain he wanted to stay. Four long months of hunting alone taught him that.

Castiel says Morgan's letter caused that decision, and Castiel thanks him for it. Morgan can't take say 'You're welcome,' not when his goal failed.

And then Castiel tells Morgan about the house. Their home, built with their own two hands, with every room having two windows.

That detail nearly breaks Morgan's heart, though he says nothing. Castiel might want to pretend otherwise, but scars still litter his mind. But Dean agreed to it. Dean agreed to everything Castiel demanded, or so Castiel says.

In a way, Morgan does want to believe that Dean is a changed man. It would mean that Castiel is relatively safe where he is, psychologically, and at least physically where Dean himself is concerned. But Morgan also knows that the chances of eliminating his toxic behavior are extremely small. Men like that simply don't change, statistically speaking.

Dr. Merris, Morgan remembers, believed Dean had.

Morgan takes note of Castiel's affect, too, when he talks about his life with Dean. Well, more than that. Affect is something profilers look for. Morgan's depending on his instinct, on how well he knows Castiel personally. There's happiness there, which he recognizes from before the kidnapping. It looks genuine, unafraid. There's the edges of sadness to that happiness, but like trying to look at a crystal head on, those facets disappear every time Castiel shifts.

Dean skewed Castiel's sense of morality a long time ago. Not in the way the BAU believes, in murdering innocent people, delusional in his need to follow Dean's psychosis. But skewed certainly in that what was once black and white – real crimes with real people – have shifted for him. Even when that crime was against Castiel himself. The BAU didn't have it entirely wrong when they profiled that Castiel came out of his captivity irreparably damaged.

But Castiel is a free man, free to stay with Dean if that's what he wants. Morgan can hate it, and does, but he can't pull them apart. If that was ever possible, it's not now, not with the circumstances in which Castiel lives. At some point, he has to respect Castiel's choice, even if in the smallest of ways by no longer actively trying to destroy the relationship.

He will remain as an out, though. In case Castiel ever does change his mind. Morgan rubs the back of his neck. "I feel like you're a drug addict and I'm trying to tell you that I care about you, but your decisions are shit."

Castiel bursts out laughing.

Morgan smiles, but that's all he manages. "If you ever want out, man, you know I'll help you."

The humor on Castiel's face fades to seriousness. "I know. And I appreciate that. I don't think it's likely, but having that – it does make me feel safe. Knowing you're out here."

That eases something in Morgan. "Good."

Castiel eyes him. "We shouldn't do this again, not until it's necessary."

Morgan leans back with a sigh. "Like a case?"

"A hunt. Yes. I think I'm living proof that every meeting is a risk."

True enough. That first meeting with Castiel and Dean, post Dean's escape from prison, was a risk in that Castiel was exposing himself to someone who had hurt him. Every meeting after that dug Castiel deeper and deeper back into the life Dean wanted for them both. It was horrifying to watch, knowing he could do nothing. Morgan knows that for the rest of his life, the horror he feels at Castiel returning to Dean will never go away.

At least Castiel appears fine. Castiel tilts his head and asks, "How is your family? Your boy walking now?"

"Yeah, Joseph's running now. Kind of badly," Morgan admits with a laugh, "his accuracy is awful but his speed is great."

"Sprinter? They run in straight lines." Castiel smirks.

"Man, what I think he'll be changes every day. One second he's running like an Olympic athlete –"

"In the 100 meter sprint," Castiel murmurs.

"And the next he's examining the baby gate and figuring out how to open it like a little engineer. Or dancing to a song on the radio." Morgan knows he's grinning, and doesn't stop. "He's an amazing little kid."

"Children that age are bundles of potential, aren't they?"

"And joy. And frustration." Morgan takes a moment to consider if he should say his next words, and then goes ahead. "For what it's worth, I think you would have made a great dad."

He manages to startle Castiel, who blinks wide-eyed for a second. His brows turn inward, and then he says slowly, "I can be a good husband."

"Yeah. I don't suppose you have a backup wedding ring?"

Castiel's expression turns embarrassed. "Dean did think of that, actually. Quite a long story about various Winchester family jewelry being lost -"

"Oh, God. I don't think I want to hear about it."

"Them. There are several. And probably not." Castiel waves a hand. "It sounds crazy enough to me, much less to you. An amulet that senses the presence of God?" He shakes his head.

"I thought God was everywhere. Wait, God's real?"

Castiel shrugs. "Angels are."

Morgan winces. "Let's not go there."

"Sorry, couldn't help myself with that little tidbit."

Morgan snorts, and a comfortable silence follows. It's easy to just sit here and be together. It reminds Morgan of before Castiel had to flee the law, before he was forced out of the BAU, and when everything was back to normal. When Castiel was just – just home. Morgan looks at Castiel carefully one last time. "How can you – how can you be happy?" Morgan asks. "With all that's happened?"

Castiel doesn't snap off an easy response. He considers the question. "I don't know how to put it into words."

"Let me know when you do."

Something in those words seems to make Castiel come to a decision. He stands up, straight and tall. "I will. We should both get going, it's been several hours. Be careful, Morgan."

"I think I should be the one saying that. If you're captured again, my information might not be enough to get you out a second time. Not without potentially killing innocent people, and I won't be party to that." Morgan knows Castiel is aware of that, but it can't hurt to say it out loud.

Castiel simply nods. "Oh, I have plans to avoid anything like that."

"Going to tell me what they are?"

"You'll know when you see it," Castiel says, laugh lines around his eyes crinkling. "I won't spoil the surprise."

Morgan sighs. "Just try not to give me a heart attack, is all I ask."

That makes Castiel laugh. He reaches over and hugs Morgan, who hugs him back and thumps him on the back.

"Take care of yourself," Morgan says, as ready to leave as he'll ever be.

The expression on Castiel's face at that is hard to define. But he shows no amusement, instead certainty. "I am."

* * *

Getting all the information in a case is crucial, but it's rarely easy.

Even after all the years since Rossi first saw the BAU created and the famous serial killer cases that resulted, witnesses will still lie, obfuscate, or ignorantly dismiss something they consider irrelevant, despite assurances that every detail matters. It's human nature, but human nature is frustrating.

"I'm used to witnesses leaving out facts they shouldn't," Rossi muses, watching while JJ follows the GPS and makes a turn. "Odd behavior like Joan Fourk displayed is usually the first thing people think of. Jane was her friend, I wonder why she didn't mention it."

JJ frowns at the road, eyeing the numbers on the houses as she passes. "I agree. Though I suppose it's possible that she knew the reason why Joan was acting oddly and, because of that, didn't think it was relevant to her death."

"I wish witnesses would let us make that call."

"We're here," JJ says, though it's unnecessary. She's already parked the car.

Rossi gets out of the passenger side, taking a look at Jane Silway's home. It's very cheery. It has a white picket fence and the light blue paint on the house itself is barely peeling, giving it a rustic feel. The yard is well cared for, and there's a small food garden in a raised box. Her car is parked in front. Rossi opens the gate and takes a few steps forward, and then he sees a blur of movement by the side of the house. He puts his hand on his gun, holding up his other hand to halt JJ.

JJ takes out her gun and looks around. "Do we need –"

Castiel steps out of a corner, and Rossi unholsters his weapon, but Castiel runs at him before he can pull the trigger in a rush attack, face determined. JJ shouts, and Rossi knows that Dean must be attacking her, but he has his hands full with Castiel, who dislodges his weapon from his hand and then kicks the back of his knee before shoving him forward until Rossi hits the ground face first. It stuns him, and Castiel handcuffs him and drags him back to his feet. His gun, which should be lying on the ground, is already gone. Castiel must have it.

JJ is slung over Dean Winchester's shoulder, mostly limp like she got the breath knocked out of her. That stops Rossi's instinctual need to run and cry for help; he can't leave JJ.

It all happened in less than a minute.

Rossi feels fear, of course. But somehow, having Castiel be here, not just Dean, is reassuring. But it shouldn't be, since Castiel has shown an incredible amount of loyalty to Dean and Dean is more than violent enough to cause them harm. Rossi tests his handcuffs, but there's no give and not enough room to manipulate his hands out. If a physical escape isn't possible, they'll have to go for psychological tactics and hope Dean and Castiel slip up.

"Don't scream," Castiel warns. Looking exhausted rather than angry, Castiel drags Rossi down the side of the house, to what looks like a cellar door. "Three steps," Castiel says curtly, and then he's being shoved forward and down.

Rossi manages to stumble without falling, although the steps are steep. Dean follows with JJ, who is now kicking madly, but her petite frame isn't a match for Dean, who stands over six feet. Her hands are cuffed behind her back.

The cellar sits under the house, and is probably about twenty feet by twenty feet. Some barrels are stuffed in a corner, along with various root vegetables in large quantities. A few clear, plastic boxes of Christmas decorations are pressed against the far wall. A single light dangles from the low ceiling.

Castiel puts a hand on Rossi's shoulder and applies force until Rossi sits. Dean rather carefully – especially for all of JJ's struggling – puts her down next to him, which is when Rossi sees that Dean somehow, in all of that, managed to gag her with a cloth. Rossi scoots closer, just in case they need to help each other.

Dean backs up until he's standing next to Castiel. They're slightly turned towards each other in the way that romantic couples and close friends tend to do, and are well within the other's personal space. Castiel's dressed similarly to Dean, wearing beat up jeans and a t-shirt under a jacket that probably hides a gun. Castiel's tee looks like it came out of Dean's closet – it looks like an old tour shirt from a Metallica concert. Rossi wonders if they share clothes, or if that's Dean's way of marking his territory. How much control does Dean have over Castiel's appearance? What does that say about their relationship?

Castiel puts Rossi's gun on a half crumpled box. Dean does the same with JJ's.

The team profiled that Dean and Castiel wouldn't fall apart under stress the way typical serial killing partners would. There's not a lot to exploit here, so they'll have to be careful.

"Fancy seeing you here," Rossi says. "Would you mind taking off JJ's gag?"

Dean is wary.

"I doubt anyone would hear you, but I'll need your word you won't scream," Castiel says, directing his words at JJ. Apparently he's the one who gets to make this decision, not Dean.

She nods.

Castiel steps forward, bends, and unties the gag before returning to Dean's side in what Rossi suspects is habit.

"Thank you," JJ says, but it's full of sarcasm rather than gratitude.

"Why are you here?" Dean asks.

"They won't answer, or they'll lie," Castiel replies. He sends a remorseful look their way. He knows exactly what Rossi and JJ are trained to do in this situation: delay, delay, delay. "We only have thirty to sixty minutes before their disappearance is discovered. Whatever they were sent here for, it can't have taken longer than that. And if someone tries to call and get a hold of either of them and can't, we might have less than thirty minutes."

Dean checks his watch and sighs. "We need forty. Cas, do you have some kind of BAU magnet? I swear, I always finished the job before the real FBI came to town."

"Are you saying I slow you down?" Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow.

Dean pauses. Then, very carefully, he says, "No? No. Definitely not."

Castiel smacks Dean's ass, grinning. "Go scout and make sure no one heard anything, then."

The teasing now obvious, Dean's response is to jauntily flip him off and then head for the cellar door. Rossi blinks after him. A slap to the ass has a more masculine or dominant connotation. He'd have thought Dean would do that to Castiel, not vice versa. Of course, Dean's nonchalant reaction – doing something offensive in return – doesn't fit being submissive, either. What's also interesting is that Castiel was willing to be playful with Dean in front of them.

It's natural for people to have several faces – different 'masks' for different people. This one is for Dean, but Castiel displayed in front of the BAU. There's confidence there, in his choices and his relationship with Dean in particular.

"No screaming," Castiel reminds them as Dean quickly opens the door, climbs out, and shuts it again.

"So," JJ says evenly, "what is it this time? Faeries?"

"Not their MO," Castiel says evasively. "And yes, they do exist." He leans against a wall and starts rolling his shoulders, like he's got a pain his neck.

"Get that from digging a grave?" JJ inquires.

Rossi gives her a warning look. Castiel might not want to hurt them, but that's no reason to antagonize him, especially given that he has Dean with him.

Castiel seems amused. "Not this time. Though grave digging is back-breaking work."

"So why are you here?" Rossi asks.

Castiel rubs the back of his neck, his expression almost apologetic. "I'd rather not say, since we're not finished with the case," he says, like his declining is impolite.

"This is a case?"

"They're all cases," Castiel replies, straightening a little. "We're not killing monsters for thrills. We're doing it to save lives, to prevent more people from being killed."

"You could achieve that nicely by surrendering," JJ says.

Castiel tilts his head at her. "You are a lot more sarcastic than I remember. But then sarcasm is a more appropriate form of trying to poke holes in my delusions, right? Because I would see the gentle act as pure mockery."

He's not wrong. JJ is half attempting to use a more subtle – though more dangerous – method at unraveling Castiel's certainty. Rossi waits to see what else JJ will do. He doesn't think this method will work, but even failure can be informative.

"You're smart," JJ says. "Smart enough to know that this honeymoon period with Dean won't last. By nature he's violent and he's beaten you before –"

Castiel rolls his eyes and interrupts. "Stop. Do you really think that will work?"

JJ exhales quietly. "Well, it was worth a try."

None of the BAU's recommendations included what to do if captured by Dean and Castiel. It simply wasn't a scenario they predicted, since Dean and Sam, historically, rarely took hostages, and not at all in the last few years the brothers were active. They can search for a weak point, but there's certainly not an obvious one, especially if they're together, and Dean will be coming back shortly unless something went wrong up there, which is unlikely. Dean is a skilled killer and manipulator, and that includes skills like going unnoticed and observing small details that mean the difference between freedom and capture. Castiel is quite possibly even more skilled in that, since he knows it from the law enforcement side of things, so him ordering Dean away is interesting. Perhaps that is a weak point: the desire to speak with JJ and Rossi privately.

Rossi needs more information. "I notice Dean takes your orders," he says.

Castiel shrugs. "He takes mine when it's my field of expertise, and vice versa. No, I'm not the submissive. And neither is Dean. We don't fit the partner serial killer pattern because we're not serial killers."

Astute, but of course Castiel would guess large parts of their profile. And that's the most obvious part. Rossi considers Castiel for a moment. Physically, Castiel is well. He has a tan, he's muscled like he works out regularly, and there's a healthy flush to his face. Behaviorally, he's shown himself to be relaxed around Dean, expressing clear trust and affection which Dean returned. If they weren't holding two FBI agents hostage, Rossi would have thought Castiel was in a non-stressful situation. It fits, but doesn't fit, the BAU's assessment.

Actually, Castiel's acting a lot like he would when he was with the BAU and they had captured an unsub, and were ready to interrogate. He's focusing on the subject – Rossi and JJ this time – and depending on Dean to have his back and notice any problems. "Dean's profile never made any sense. Neither does yours."

Castiel's expression is rueful, but he doesn't reply. Instead he double checks JJ and Rossi's guns, empties the clips and throws the bullets in the corner, and pats them down for a backup piece, which both of them have. Then he starts trying to crack Rossi's phone password.

"How have you been?" Rossi asks, refusing to be fazed.

"That's not a profiling question," Castiel says, not looking up.

"You don't think we wonder about you? About your welfare?" Rossi pauses. "I wish you weren't doing this. I wish you had come to us, said something, asked for help. But now that it's too late for that, I'd like to know how you are."

Castiel softens and raises his eyes. "I'm good. I know you can't believe that, given Dean's history, but I'm doing really well."

"Not well enough," JJ mutters.

Castiel hears it, glancing at her, but otherwise doesn't react.

"Dean isn't hurting you?"

It's quite likely Castiel knows the double nature of the question, but he answers anyway. "No. I never would have reinitiated anything with Dean at all if I thought he would."

"Abusers don't change," Rossi says.

"Not statistically speaking, no. But Dean isn't a normal guy, and he doesn't live a normal life, either." Castiel's look is a challenge.

Rossi decides to accept that as truth for now. "Are you happy? With him, with this life of hunting monsters?"

A flicker of uneasy shock comes over Castiel's face, gone almost as soon as it appears, which is startling since that's nowhere near what Rossi was expecting. Castiel shakes his head as if to clear it, and says, "I am, if that matters to you. It's not quite what I had in mind, but my choices had consequences and I accept that."

Castiel's choices. Did that include believing Dean, or was that not a choice but something that seemed more like accepting reality? Or does he mean the choice to remain in contact with Dean throughout his years of freedom, ending in this – a prison of just the two of them, in the bunker and on the road. But something else always bothered Rossi, ever since Castiel fled after the murder of Bower. "Why didn't you come to us, Castiel? You didn't want to go back to Dean, not when you walked away from that motel room over five years ago. Why didn't you ask us for help? If it was monsters, if it was psychosis – no matter what it was, we would have helped you, and helped you keep your career."

"Because I'm not crazy," Castiel whispers, but he doesn't break his gaze and stares Rossi down.

"You must have doubted. Even if just –"

"No. Do you doubt the rising of the sun in the morning? The fact that your car starts when you turn your key? I saw magic after Dean, not just when I was imprisoned by him. I never had room for doubt, as easier as that would have been."

Rossi needs to try a different tack.

But it's JJ who speaks. "I recognized the ritualistic element in this case. From a source I think you would recognize – run by someone with the username wtchnet. Am I right?"

That does seem to surprise Castiel. "You've been doing research. I doubt you came upon that just during this case, it's too obscure."

"Just seeing how consistent you are."

"Am I inconsistent in my craziness yet?"

JJ doesn't reply for a long second. "No. Though there's a lot of different opinions and theories, yours and Dean's always follow one set."

Rossi mutes his own surprise.

Instead of satisfaction, there's worry on Castiel's face. But why? JJ just confirmed his delusions, probably in part to gain his confidence. Wariness would be an appropriate response, but not worry.

However, JJ has managed to break his confidence, somehow. They can use that.

That's when Dean comes back. His hand on his gun when he goes down the stairs, but he relaxes when he sees Castiel just where he left him. "Goin' good," Dean says shortly. "I'd say fifteen minutes and we can get out of here."

The BAU never had the opportunity to observe Dean and Castiel together, not really. The footage from a few security cameras isn't the same. Perhaps if they remain quiet, Dean and Castiel will talk to the fill the silence and reveal something. Rossi tries to catch JJ's eye.

She nods at him and sits back, shifting her arms to get comfortable. Good, she knows what he's thinking.

Sure enough, Dean gets antsy. "I hate waiting," he mutters.

"You hate inactivity," Castiel replies.

"Same thing," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "And we can't talk much with the FBI's little earpieces sitting here with us."

Castiel gives him an amused look, expression patient.

Dean sidles closer.

"You do realize they want us to talk, right?" Castiel asks.

Dean responds by groaning and letting his head fall on Castiel's shoulder. "You know, we should be planning how to avoid the FBI, local PD, and wrath of God."

"We will. Once it's done."

Though Castiel didn't say anything unusual, his response seems to temporarily pacify Dean. After a minute of silence, however, Dean uses his closeness to bump into Castiel's hip, gaining his attention. Once Dean has it, he pulls Castiel to his side. Castiel relaxes into the half-embrace. Rossi sees Dean give them a look when he does it, but instead of the triumph Rossi would have expected, there's a defensiveness there.

A _he's mine_ , but also a _I'll keep him safe from you_.

Protectiveness, which is a facet of some sort of love.

Castiel allows it, much in the same way he allowed it from the members of the BAU after his escape from Dean over five years ago. Rossi doesn't like to make the comparison, because even the idea of Dean being able to care for Castiel in a sincere way is unnerving. Not because it means Castiel is suffering less, that part is a relief even after all that Castiel has done, but because the idea of two serial killers having that says something disturbing about the human condition. JJ called Dean's actions half manipulation and half genuine seduction. Rossi supposes this is the genuine part.

After perhaps five minutes of quiet, Castiel leans over and whispers something in Dean's ear. Dean listens attentively, and then nods in what looks like agreement.

Castiel giving orders again, maybe.

Whenever Castiel shifts to get more comfortable, Dean follows it, not allowing their physical connection to break. That speaks of some insecurity on Dean's part, possibly because Rossi and JJ represent Castiel's past life. That might be a weakness, or it might not; even if Rossi is interpreting what he sees accurately, that doesn't mean it's a vulnerability he can exploit. So he watches, and as he does so, he sees that Castiel gives reassurance in small ways. A touch to Dean's hand here, or letting his leg touch Dean's. Dean is reaching out with need, and Castiel is responding to that need.

In a normal scenario, Rossi would have called it touching.

After a while of that, Dean seems reassured enough and stops, instead getting antsy again.

"You wanna – you know, check?" Dean asks Castiel. He waves a hand above his head, presumably referring to whatever is happening in the house.

Castiel glances at Rossi and JJ. "I think –"

"I promise I won't spill any embarrassing stories."

Castiel shoots him an irritated look. "As if you have any." He pauses and amends, "That many."

"We'll be fine."

It looks like a deliberate attempt to get Castiel to leave. Curious, and not a little foreboding. If Castiel is in control, or has any degree of control over Dean's behavior, then Dean's unlikely to hurt them directly, but it's possible. Rossi watches as Castiel reluctantly climbs out of the cellar, giving Rossi one last unreadable look before exiting.

Dean stops casually leaning against the wall. "I want you to tell me something," he says, tone all business. "Telling me the truth makes this go easier for everyone."

Rossi waits.

"Does Castiel have a kill order on his head?"

JJ twitches, probably not perceptible to Dean. Rossi is taken aback, but it's an intelligent question. The BAU and SWAT team opened fire when Dean and Castiel ran from the warehouse, back in California. Shooting at running suspects isn't usually done unless the suspects are a direct threat to someone if they escape. After the fact, Hotchner admitted to the team he'd recommended deadly force be used against Castiel – as well as Dean, already placed – in that scenario. He'd thought it would be difficult for the team and hadn't anticipated the team running into Dean and Castiel, so he'd not quite kept it a secret as failed to inform them. JJ glances at Rossi, a question on her face.

"He does," Dean says flatly. "Shit. Fuck."

"Worried?" Rossi asks, genuinely curious.

"Of course I fucking am! I mean, me, that's one thing. But you guys doing that to Cas?" Dean shakes his head. "This'll hurt him."

"He probably knows," JJ points out. "He was law enforcement for twenty years, he knows under what circumstances that order is given."

"Guessing is different from confirmation." Dean starts pacing, doing less than ten circuits before he visibly calms himself.

Castiel returns just a minute later. Dean must have known exactly how long he had to question them. That Dean can almost subconsciously do so is an unsurprising sign of how closely they've been working together. The BAU has only officially been given notice of a few Dean and Castiel cases, but there could be countless others that haven't attracted attention. They both seem very comfortable with each other, in fact. Rossi imagines that the trust between them must be immense for that. Dr. Merris predicted it, but it's still odd to see such an unusual relationship between partner serial killers. And Dean is showing behavior that indicates he not only has that trust, but also that he cares about Castiel's psychological well being.

That's certainly something he didn't seem to care about before, judging from how broken Castiel was when he escaped Dean. Though it's true Castiel always claimed Dean did care, just not enough to actually let Castiel go.

Castiel seems to sense the tension in the room, because he asks, "What happened?"

"Nothing," Dean replies immediately. He picks up JJ's cell and starts guessing at the password.

"You're just going to lock it," Castiel says mildly, taking it away. But instead of putting it back down, he considers it. Then he exchanges JJ's for Rossi's and tries on that phone.

Rossi suddenly realizes that Castiel may, in fact, be able to guess his password.

Castiel looks up and grins. "Your daughter's birthday." He swipes through a few things, and then starts typing. Rossi sighs.

Dean leans in to look. "Ah, good idea."

No doubt Castiel's giving some kind of reason for their delay. Forty minutes. Rossi would guess twenty to thirty minutes has passed since being dragged down here. That means that when forty minutes is up, they're still likely to be in the hands of Castiel and Dean. They stated they had no intention of harming Rossi and JJ, but he can't trust in that. In addition, who knows what Dean and Castiel need those forty minutes for. Bleeding someone out? Committing a murder? Setting the house on fire? It could be anything. But the cuffs are tight, and he doesn't have anything capable of picking them, even if he had any kind of real skill at doing so.

Castiel puts the phone down. Dean grabs it, along with JJ's, and throws it in a Christmas box, which he puts another box on, just to make it difficult for them to reach it.

"All right, we'll check things out upstairs and then leave." Castiel turns to Rossi and JJ. "You shouldn't be down here too long. Even with my text, they'll start looking for you in a few hours."

Rossi can detect no trace of a lie. He can feel JJ relax a little next to him.

"Anything you have to add?" JJ asks. "Before you take off and we give chase?"

Dean eyes them both. "For the record?"

JJ hesitates.

Castiel tilts his head and then looks at Dean, like he wants to know what Dean has to say.

"Yes, for the record," JJ finally says, deciding to be honest. This entire ordeal is on the record, after all.

"I really, really fucking love Castiel Novak." Then Dean takes Castiel by the arm, pulls him in, and kisses him hard. Castiel resists for just a second, but even though Rossi wishes he could see it as some part of the true Castiel coming out, he suspects Castiel was just startled. After that second, Castiel returns the kiss, far gentler. Dean responds to that by softening the kiss, one hand coming to rest at Castiel's waist and with the other he caresses Castiel's arm.

Then he withdraws and smirks at Rossi, jangling the cuff keys he took earlier. "Later. Hopefully never."

There's a lightness in Castiel's eyes when he turns to face them, as well as a sorrow that Rossi recognizes from JJ's interview. "Have a good life," he says, and Rossi can tell he means it.

Then they go up the cellar stairs and are gone.

After a moment, JJ says, "Well, that was the last thing I was expecting to happen when I woke up this morning."

Rossi's cell buzzes, barely discernible through the plastic box. "Time to get free."

It takes them almost forty-five minutes, but they reach the cell and, with Rossi holding the phone and JJ dialing with her nose, manage to make a call to Hotchner using speed dial. Five minutes later, police arrive and swarm over the house and cellar. Both were locked and the doors had to be broken down, so Dean and Castiel took precautions. They also find Jane Silway tied up in a bedroom, as well as a ritual site in her living room. She claims that the tied her up, performed some kind of spell, and then said it had to 'cook' so it would work, though she says she doesn't know what it does – or what they thought it would do. She can't explain why Dean and Castiel chose her house, and reacts defensively when pushed.

The series of murders the BAU was sent to help investigate stop completely. The team puts it down to another vigilante killing, and wait for a body to show up. Rossi changes his lock screen password. Dean and Castiel disappear.

JJ and Rossi add bits and pieces to the profile, along with a recommendation for the scenario in which they found themselves – being held hostage.

 _Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester can be convinced that law enforcement personnel are not involved and should be freed. This will not work with civilians, as it's likely they will consider them to be part of the supernatural 'case' they are attempting to solve. If civilians are taken hostage, determining if they are innocent or guilty in the eyes of Novak and Winchester is critical. In the case of being innocent, going along with the particular psychoses Novak and Winchester display at the time is the most effective …_

They find a journal in the hotel room Dean and Castiel had to abandon, along with some weapons, clothes, and other necessities. One of the beds had semen stains, but no blood was found. Dean and Castiel's connection to the murders is still unknown, as they checked in well after the murders began. The journal is in code, so it is no immediate help. After a thorough forensic examination, Reid takes the journal to begin decrypting it.

Rossi thinks of Castiel's last words as they fly back to Virginia. Have a good life. He has the feeling that Castiel meant it in the sense that what Castiel lost, he wants his former friends to keep.

* * *

Morgan has approximately half an hour to get this done.

Half of the BAU is at the local police station, hunting down details and refining the profile, and the other half are sleeping. Morgan was supposed to be in the latter half. He told the others he was going out for some real food, which is true, and that he'd be back as soon as he got it so he could eat and sleep, which wasn't true. Instead he's going to go find a very specific dark alley with no cameras to view his exit or entrance – Castiel did the checking, and Morgan trusts him with his life– and spend about twenty minutes there doing something that would horrify the entire BAU. Five minutes to get to the spot, and five back.

Safety first, Castiel said. It was the details of such meetings that tripped Castiel up and started his fall.

A brush-pass would have been safer, but Morgan hasn't been alone long enough to type up the important things that haven't made it into the files yet, like the team's profile. It would also leave a more substantial digital trace, if the copying of the files is discovered. Morgan took the copy from police records, not the BAU, so Penelope is unlikely to find it, but it never hurts to take precautions.

Morgan has to duck through several alleys and a crisscross of small roads before he finds them.

Dean, Castiel, and a hunter Morgan has not met are there. Dean leans against a dumpster. There's a bulge at his hip, so he's armed. That's not terribly surprising. Morgan is sure all three are armed with guns and knives, but it still makes him prickly to see Dean that way and not go for his handcuffs. He doubts he'll ever see Dean as anything other than a monster, no matter what kind words Castiel has for him. Dean gives Morgan a wary nod, but doesn't move from his spot, probably knowing that.

Castiel looks good. Healthy. And Morgan is glad to see him working with people besides Dean. Castiel relaxes when he sees Morgan arrive.

The unnamed hunter is there with Morgan's permission. Morgan eyes him warily. The hunter is almost completely bald, but makes up for it with bushy eyebrows and a mustache from the eighties. He doesn't look like much, but then hunters rarely do; Dean's looks and charisma are a rarity. Castiel suggested his presence, so in case Castiel and Dean can't take a call (because of prison, death, or other reasons), Morgan will still have someone to go to.

"Hello, Morgan," Castiel says. "This is Dave. He's the hunter I mentioned."

Morgan walks up to Dave and holds out his hand.

Dave looks surprised, but he shakes Morgan's hand anyway.

"Thanks for coming out," Morgan says.

Dave shrugs. "I was staying at Castiel's place anyway. Took some heat in Nevada, stole a car, dumped a body, you know how it goes. Needed a place to lay low for a week."

"I see," Morgan says, like he's not an FBI agent willingly ignoring several crimes.

Dave scratches behind his ear. "I hear you need another go-to guy in case one of these fellows kicks it."

"That's more or less correct."

Dave raises a bushy eyebrow. "Takin' quite a risk being out here, talking to us, Special Agent Morgan. I mean, I did the whole pinkie-pinkie-kill-you swear and all, but still."

"You're risking your lives so I don't risk mine," Morgan says, meaning both his life and his career. "I think I owe you that much."

Dave looks like he's trying not to look impressed. Castiel notices and coughs into his hand. Dean actually rolls his eyes.

Morgan digs the thumb drive out of his pocket, and hands it to Castiel. "Team's at the local PD and at Rimmerside Hotel. I couldn't put down anything else, no time, so I'll give you a rundown about where the BAU's head is at." Strange, to refer to his team as the BAU instead of 'us.' "You should be able to predict the rest as the case plays out."

Castiel nods. "Thank you. What are the details?"

Morgan tries to be as complete and yet brief as possible. He lays out the case from the BAU's perspective based on the available evidence. Castiel listens closely. Dave does as well, surprisingly, and is able to ask brief, pointed questions, most of which have answers in the thumb drive. The questions manage to impress Morgan; Dave's isn't an idiot, and if he's not law enforcement, he's got the mind of a detective on a case. Dean is also paying attention, but says nothing. Morgan checks his watch. Five minutes until he has to go.

Of course, Castiel notices. "We've got enough. We can fill in the blanks." Which is probably true. Castiel did work in the BAU for long enough. "You should head back."

But Morgan hesitates. "BAU's still going in circles with the thing in Illinois."

Castiel's smile is smug. "I bet."

"How long did you spend making that journal?"

"Over a year."

"And you just left it in any hotel you were at, just in case the FBI happened by and you had to run?"

"Or local law enforcement, it'd get to them one way or another." Castiel tilts his head. "How long do you think it will keep the BAU off our backs?"

"At least that long, if we keep having cases in the meantime. Reid will figure out that most of it is fake eventually, but since you matched it with real, unsolved crimes, it'll take a lot of attention to detail and time." Not to mention the illusive mentions of a plan, regarding a good portion of those, written in code that actually took Reid almost two weeks to break.

Castiel shrugs. "Reid would be the one. He's mostly why I included real cases Dean and I were on, though nothing that would provide a real pattern – or that they weren't likely to know about at some point anyway." He pauses. "Watch JJ, okay?"

"Why?" Morgan asks.

"Just a feeling. She's doing independent research, and got at least one solid source."

"A real one?"

Castiel nods.

"All right, I'll keep an eye out."

That relaxes Castiel. "All right, then. Dean and I are fine. As safe as we can be, under the circumstances. We'll keep far away from the BAU."

"Don't take risks," Morgan warns.

"We won't take any more risks," Castiel corrects. "Go on. I'll email you later and let you know how the case really turned out."

It feels odd to leave. Or maybe just to leave like this, handing off a case – an FBI case – to a team of people seen as criminals, and washing his hands of it.

Dean, he has no doubt can handle it. He's been doing it for two decades. Castiel is smart, but given his current situation, also likely to take risks when he thinks it's appropriate, risks that Morgan would rather he not take. Dave – Dave just looks like a guy doing a job. Morgan doubts the BAU will look twice at him.

It has to be enough.

There's nothing else for him to do. Taking this on himself would likely just end his career, and possibly end in criminal court. Giving all the information the police has to Castiel is important, and not something hunters would necessarily get their hands on otherwise. Morgan is serving a useful purpose. Just not an active one, gun in hand, team behind him, and saving lives himself. The longer he provides it, the better. His last act, really, is to do nothing. To let them handle it.

Morgan nods at Castiel, a man hunted for doing the right thing. Castiel smiles back.

And then Morgan walks away.

* * *

Five months later, Morgan gets a postcard.

It's of sunny Ventura Beach, a typical tourist postcard you could find in a hundred stores. There's no from address on it, but when Morgan flips it over, there's text written in all capital letters to make handwriting analysis harder.

 _A life of great joys and sorrows still has great joys._

Unsigned, of course. It's not quite a reminder to have faith, and more a reminder to have hope. Despite all the horrors that Castiel suffered and all the pain he endured, he took his moments of happiness and enjoyed them. He still is. Even though Morgan knows Castiel will be forever marked by what Dean did to him, that mark isn't enough to end him, or his ability to have happiness. Castiel hoped for a better future and found it, and still is finding it, every single day. Morgan saw pieces of that through Castiel's words, and this final note completes it.

He worries the edge of the postcard, knowing that it will soften over the years. Then he puts it in a book in his bookcase, hidden, and goes downstairs to his wife and child.

"Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil." – Friedrich Nietzsche

THE END


End file.
